Monolith
by NewTwilightFan
Summary: *Red Eyed Edward Contest Entry: 1st Place Judges' Vote* Bella has returned to Forks to live with her father every other year since her parents' divorce. Her emotional isolation threatens to overwhelm her, then she senses a mysterious force drawing her deep into the shadows of an abandoned graveyard. The force emanates from a standing stone. . . the gateway to her destiny. AU
1. BPOV

Red Eyed Edward Contest: **1st Place Judges Vote**

Thank you to everyone who played a part in this contest. Thank you most of all to **Ninkita**... _You made this a better story. You make me a better writer._ Thank you, hun!

 **Summary:** Bella returns to Forks for her junior year of high school, living with her father as she has every second year since her parents' divorce. Her emotional isolation threatens to overwhelm her, then she senses a mysterious force drawing her deep into the shadows of an abandoned graveyard. The force emanates from a standing stone. . . the gateway to her destiny.

 **Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

I like walking. It gives me time to explore. Time to find and appreciate all the hidden beauty of this tiny town.

That was irony, in case you missed it.

My hometown: Forks, Washington. Population 3,187. Give or take a few.

Forks doesn't feel like home, but neither does Phoenix, although I would choose blue skies over gray in a heartbeat. One foot in the rain, one in the sun. The frustrating reality of growing up a child of divorce. It's my dad's year. My cold, wet, rainy year. At least I can guarantee sunshine at my high school graduation. For now, I'll make it my mission to learn every street and mailbox, every moss-draped tree, every dilapidated porch swing with its mandatory floral cushion harboring a colony of black mold spores. Come next summer, I plan to fly back to the sun and never look back.

I walk home from school a different way every day. I memorize each house and yard, taking special note of the junkers in the driveways and the hand-carved signs hung out to advertise familial pride in the ramshackle tenements. By the end of September, I've covered every possible route, twisting left and right through the grid of narrow streets and duplex ramblers. The wind is a damp, cold breath flowing in from the ocean; an effluvium of seaweed, mud and moss-damp pine. I take it in, picking apart the scents, a patchwork quilt of memories. Fishing trips, tide pools, campfires and walks through primeval forests draped in curtains of eerie green.

I stop at an intersection. Home, my father's house, is off to the right. Just two blocks away. Drab yellow siding, charcoal asphalt shingles and the police cruiser in the driveway.

It's still light. I turn left.

My detour takes me past an abandoned orchard, apples hanging brown and shriveled from the gnarled branches. Lichen and fungus clamber like coral up the trunks and branches, thriving in the waterlogged habitat. I tuck my dripping hair back under my hood and walk on.

The fence changes from weathered split-rail to rusty metal. Corroded iron mounted in crumbling stone, the mortar falling prey to decades of neglect, just like everything else here. I look between the posts to see marble markers, crab grass and tangled thistles half-buried in moldering leaves.

Curious and bored, I enter the abandoned cemetery.

I stop.

Something calls to me. It hums inside of me. A heat. A vibration. A beacon. . .

I pick my way between the stones, reading names long forgotten. William J. Barney. . . Mariah Churchill. . . Zachariah something beginning with a 'T', his last name erased by time and the elements.

The feeling, the knot of energy beneath my ribs, guides me further back, further in. Near the southernmost edge of the fenced lot, an ancient fir tree grows. Its limbs hang tired and heavy, fingers dragging in the mud. From between its dark green needles, a glimpse of white catches my eye. The pull gets stronger.

It would be so easy to let it possess my body, carry me marionette-like to its source. A tiny voice within me tells me to turn around and leave. To run away. To leave before it's too late, before I lose what little free will I still possess.

I dislike being told what to do, where to go. I always have. But every year I am a ping pong ball, bouncing back and forth between vastly different parents who love me but are too stubborn to admit that this arrangement isn't working. It never worked. It couldn't work. They wanted to share me 50/50 and chose Solomon's sword to make it fair. Fair for everyone but me.

I ask myself, "Run where? To what? From what?"

And that's the clincher. Curiosity wins.

As I enter the oldest section of the cemetery, the grave markers change from simple marble placards to upright stones and carved crosses. One statue, an angel weeping, hovers over a tiny raised sarcophagus. The blackened mortar that fills the seam between case and lid is chipped and gaping. I imagine that I can simply peek between the slabs to view the bones of the deceased child. Icy fingers scratch down my spine.

Pulling my jacket tight against the chills, I skirt around the mourning edifice. My circular path brings me to the deeply rooted guardian tree. I part its branches with a steady hand and find myself standing before a breathtaking work of art.

The monolith seems to have been carved from a single piece of marble. If it wasn't, the work was so expertly executed that I cannot see any sign of a joint or seam. It towers above me, taller than a man, at least seven feet high and three feet in diameter. Like a massive crystal birthed from a vein of cooling magma, it juts up from the earth, an opaque prism tapering suddenly near the top. The pinnacle is capped with a Gaelic cross, the whorls and channels blackened by years of pine needles gathering in its crevices and rotting away. The runoff has stained the stone in rivulets of gray and brown.

I walk around the monument, fascinated and curious. It is so different from every other memorial stone here. It belongs in a European graveyard amid the tombs of fallen kings, not this backwater logging town. My toe catches on a solid object, mostly buried beneath the thick blanket of castoff needles. With one booted foot, I scrape away the sodden material to reveal a marble plaque, filthy and discolored but otherwise in excellent condition.

I read the words and feel them take hold, worming their way into my bones.

Edward Anthony Masen Cullen

Born June 20, 1901

Our Beloved Son and Brother,

We Will Mourn Your Loss

Every Day of This Existence

'Every day of this existence.' It's an odd choice of words, even for a decades-old tombstone. And there is no dash nor date to mark his departure from this world. I circle the monolith once more, then reach out, placing my hand flat against the north face. The stone hums beneath my hand. Resonant and warm, the feeling echos in my bones, shaking loose the ennui and apathy that have caused my heart and mind to stagnate all these years.

I am alarmed, but I don't pull away. I step closer.

With both hands pressed against the icy marble face, I feel it. The pull of the tides. The heat of the sun cresting the horizon. The rush of the blood within my veins. I hold my breath until I am giddy and lightheaded. This is life. This is what it feels like to belong. To be wanted. To have the essence of my being cradled and treasured within something greater than myself.

It tells me I am home. Home. Home. . . .

As the light fails, I drag myself away. I feel colder already, no longer sheltered beneath the fir tree. The pull is still there, but it weakens as I walk away. I miss it. I vow to return tomorrow after school. Edward Anthony Masen Cullen. . . I wonder who he was and how he died. I wonder if his family's descendants still live in or around Forks. I do not recognize the name, but a lot can happen in a couple generations. Perhaps they moved away, or the name disappeared with the death of the last male descendant. With a bit of sleuthing, I know I can find answers.

~*~ MONOLITH ~*~

"Bella, wait up!" Mike calls, running to catch me before I step into the crosswalk.

"Hey, Mike," I greet him politely.

My sporadic attendance, here one year, gone the next, creates a tense and shaky bond with my peers. I am neither fish nor fowl. Not a new kid, but not in any crowd or clique. Mike is one of the 'popular' kids, or as popular as you can be ruling a class that never quite reaches triple digits.

"Where are you off to?"

"Home. Chores," I lie, mildly surprised at how easy it is. I've never practiced lying. I don't often have cause to speak, let alone say something false.

"That bites. We're all heading to Crowley's house to play Call of Duty."

"I'm not really into board games," I say.

"It's actually a video game. On the Xbox," he explains, trailing off as I start across the street.

I wave back over my shoulder, dismissing his attempts to include me. I know what an Xbox is, but I really don't care at this moment. Now that I am walking toward the cemetery, the strange pull has returned. It is almost insistent. It quickens my steps and my heart rate. I am nearly jogging as I pass the old orchard, the scent of fermentation and mold sour in my throat.

My eager, searching eyes find it, and I stop, my hands gripping the corroded iron bars for support. Solid white and quiet, it lurks in the shadows. I should be frightened. That would be the normal reaction. After all, this is a graveyard. A place for ghosts and ghouls. But I'm not normal. I never have been. I've never fit in with my peers. It seems a little late to start trying now. Rather than being fearful, I feel curious and hungry, missing the hum of the stone's energy feeding my soul.

I enter through the gate and walk straight to the tree. My eyes never drop, but my steps are sure, somehow moving over and around clumps of grass and grave markers without tripping. It is almost magnetic, the way it draws me in. I smile as I slip beneath the hanging boughs. I let my backpack slide from my shoulders. I unzip my raincoat and hang it from a bare, brittle branch. My hands land on the cool stone and I laugh, relieved to be back within its embrace. The buzzing hum. . . it makes my blood simmer in my veins.

I want to fall into the feeling. I step closer. Closer. Until I can rest my cheek against the stone.

I lose myself.

I don't know where the hours go, but it is dark, and I am late. Feeling cold inside already, I grab my jacket and bag and run home.

"Hey there, Bella. Where've you been?" my dad asks from his spot in front of the television.

"Oh, I dropped by Tyler Crowley's house after school to work on a project, then me and my friends lost track of time. Video games, you know. I'm sorry. Have you already eaten?"

"There's pizza on the counter. Dig in," he says, nodding toward the kitchen.

"Thanks, Dad," I smile.

Inside I'm quaking as I help myself to two slices of pepperoni and sausage deep-dish pizza. I need to be more careful. My dad's a cop. One slip up is no big deal. But if it happens again, he'll question me until he finds out the truth.

What is the truth? I don't even know. I've found something. Something beautiful and tantalizing. Something inexplicable, but wonderful. I've found something magical. . . and I don't want to share.

I hurry through my homework, not worrying about how neat it is. I stuff everything back in my bag and start up my laptop. I don't know where to begin my search. I try his name first. There are no hits for Edward Anthony Masen Cullen. Thousands of hits for other combinations of the names, but none that include all four or even three.

I research the last name, finding that it has Gaelic roots, which explains the cross. I search for 'Cullen' in combination with 'Forks' and other nearby city names. There is one hit. A public record of a property deed just south of Forks. I click through the Department of Taxation website with my heart pounding. No sales on record since 1936. The property is still held under the names of Carlisle and Esme Cullen.

My fingers fumble the address four times before I am able to type it into Google correctly. The map shows me a secluded parcel almost two and a half miles outside of town. If I walk there after school, I won't have time to visit the monolith before I have to come home. The desire to know more about this man and his past is powerful, but the compulsion to return to his memorial and feel the living energy it possesses is formidable.

"It's only one day. It's only one day. I'll be back," I reassure myself as I get ready for bed.

~*~ MONOLITH ~*~

The school day drags. My teachers drone, my classmates prattle, even my lunch is tasteless and boring. I am absent minded and distracted, despite my efforts to act normal. Mr. Banner expresses concern, and I wave it off. Just a bug. I'll feel better soon.

As soon as the final bell rings, I hurry off, bypassing my locker to escape campus before anyone can flag me down or ask where I'm going. I follow the route I memorized last night, walking as quickly as the slippery, leaf-strewn shoulder allows. I reach the property forty five minutes later. I almost miss the turnoff, overgrown as it is, but an ancient iron post still bears a rusted sign, the letter 'C' curling around an old family crest. I recognize the symbol from the carved plaque by the monolith.

The road must have been paved with stone at one time. It's the only thing that has prevented the forest from swallowing it completely. I slip beneath the overhanging trees, squeezing between narrow-trunk conifers that have found feeble purchase in the layers of fallen leaves and branches. I know I am on the correct path because iron lamp posts pop up every ten yards.

I step out into a clearing and stop, transfixed. The house is massive. White pillars hold up the sagging roof. The wrap-around porch kneels, broken by years of neglect. But even in its sad condition, it is impressive. Stately. I approach the abandoned home, breathless and amazed.

He lived here. Once upon a time, Edward Cullen ate, lived and slept beneath that roof. For the thousandth time I try to imagine him. Was he brutish or graceful? Simple or smart? The early logging community would not have attracted many educated professionals, but the Cullen family's wealth and prominence was apparent in the size and grandeur of their home and the stunning memorial they had erected for their deceased son. I decide that I will look for other family markers in the cemetery tomorrow. It is unlikely that he was the only one to die here.

I walk around the entire house, taking in the boarded windows and extensive damage from insects and rot. I don't dare climb the steps to the front door. Several are missing and the rest are on the verge of disintegrating. One of the boards on a first-floor window is hanging, crooked and splintered. I knock the pieces away easily, but the thick-paned glass is murky with grime. I heave against the weight of the window, but the latch holds and the frame creaks. I don't want to break it.

I pull the boards away from another window and try again. The latch pops free and the window moves an inch. Sweating with exertion, I manage to raise it more than a foot, but the frame is so warped that it won't move any further. Looking around the clearing, I make sure I am truly alone before lifting my foot high enough to hook over the frame. Hopping and pulling myself up awkwardly, I am able to worm my way through. I land, breathless, on marble tiles. Marble that perfectly matches the monolith.

The rugs are moldy, the patterns indiscernible. The smell of rodents and rot are heavy in the stagnant air. I lift my shirt to cover my mouth and nose, then I start to explore. I am in an old living room. Turn-of-the-century furniture lies in shambles, the silk threads and cotton batting filched by industrious mice to line their nests. There is a piano, collapsed and shattered, its strings coiling around and between the fractured bones of Mozart and Bach.

I find the kitchen, the wooden slab still solid and sound, although it, too, is coated in grime. Appliances, probably state-of-the-art at that time, sit listlessly on buckled legs. An ice box. A wood-burning stove. Stacks of tarnished silver and delicate china sleep in carved wooden cabinets. How has this place never been looted? Has it been invisible all these years?

I try the stairs, but my foot crashes through the third step, and I scream, the alien sound of my voice echoing from the walls and ceilings. The effect is haunting.

There is one more room on the main floor. A sort of parlor, with abandoned sofas rotting in a ring and winter-bare bookcases yawning on every wall. I turn to go, only stopping when I notice an oil painting hanging above the ancient mantel. The light is poor, only thin strips of gray creep through the split boards that shield the windows.

I pull my key-chain out of my pocket and turn on my penlight, aiming the beam at the oil canvas. There are five faces - three men, two women. Their clothes are fine; black coats and shiny waistcoats on the men, lace-trimmed gowns on the women. But it isn't their historic finery that arrests my attention, it is their faces.

I kneel, my legs suddenly weak and unsteady. They are beautiful. More than beautiful. Otherworldly. Their skin is smooth and white as moonlight, their features godlike and perfect. And the artist, whoever he was, captured their expressions flawlessly.

The young blond man stands in the center of the portrait, his eyes glinting gold and watchful, but his mouth is relaxed, almost smiling. A stunning woman leans into his side, her hair a mass of honey and wheat, coiled in burnished strands atop her head, her gaze radiating so much love and acceptance. Her eyes, like his, seem to glow with an inner light, like the amber warmth of sunlight passing through stained glass.

Seated in front are two boys and a girl. Or rather, two young men and a woman. The blonde girl was staring straight at the painter as she sat for the portrait, so her gaze passes right through me. Hard. Challenging. Bitter. Her eyes aren't liquid-soft amber. They are topaz, cold and brittle.

The young man to her left holds her hand on his knee, twin silver bands on their ring fingers. His expression is a dimpled smile, as if he was stifling laughter or remembering an inside joke while he posed, and the painter was in on it. Dark brown hair curls against his broad forehead. Broad shoulders, broad hands, broad smile. He was a big man. With golden eyes. Of course.

And then there's the boy to her right. I realize that this must have been an older portrait. He is much younger than the dates on the memorial plaque implied. If he was born in 1901, but the family didn't purchase this home until 1936. . . he would have been an adult, established with his own life and career when the family lived here. Even so, I know it's him. Edward. I know because my heart pounds and my hands shake. And the hum. . . it vibrates deep in my stomach, calling me back to him. I look into his eyes, and I see my soulmate. Trapped, like me, a creature suspended between two worlds.

His wayward hair looks like it has a life of its own, curling in fire-tipped auburn waves. His features are stark and chiseled, but as beautiful as a Greco-Roman sculpture. He is perfect in every way. Every way but one. It must be some trick of the light, or water damage to the painting itself, but his eyes don't match the others'. They are looking over me, over the painter's head, focused on some point far, far away. Lost. Desolate. And they glow crimson, bleeding from within.

Shaken, shaking, I let myself out, yanking hard on the jammed window until it crashes back into place. I shove my arms into my sleeves and zip up my coat. It's raining again, and the light is failing. I jog through the twilight and think of his face, angelic in its beauty but possessed by some foreign agony. I want to visit him. To tell him what I've found. To tell him that I know him now. Edward. . .

Tomorrow. I will see him tomorrow.

~*~ MONOLITH ~*~

Yesterday, I was despondent. Today, I am brimming with energy and excitement.

"Feeling better, Isabella?" Mr. Banner asks.

"Yes. I feel incredible," I grin, then tamp it down. Mike is watching me.

I avoid him, but he stops me at my locker. I curse myself for forgetting my science notebook which I need to finish writing my report for tomorrow.

"Hey, Bella. So, I was wondering if you wanted to grab a milkshake after school tomorrow. It's supposed to be sunny."

"I don't know. . ." I stall, trying to come up with an excuse.

"Jessica and some of the others will be there," he adds, trying to put me at ease me with the promise of a group gathering instead of a date. I glance to my left and see our classmate watching us surreptitiously from her locker at the end of the row. She doesn't look happy.

"It sounds like fun, I just don't want to make plans without checking with my dad first. I've only been back for a month," I say, and the excuse sounds weak, even to my ears. His face falls. I should feel bad, but I don't. "I'll check. If not, maybe some other time," I add, softening the blow.

Jessica is within earshot. I can tell, because she smiles. It's good to feel wanted, I think sarcastically. If only she knew. . . I'm not her competition. She has nothing to worry about.

I take a different route to the cemetery. It adds a few minutes, but I don't want people to notice a pattern and start bothering me. Maybe I'm being paranoid. Something tells me it's safer this way.

Safer? I don't know why that word popped into my head.

I feel anxious as I draw closer. Fretting at my own slow pace until it finally comes into view. Iron rails, crumbling stone walls, and the fir tree towering over it all. I check in front and behind, but the street is deserted. This stretch always is.

When I finally stumble and fall against the stone, I chuckle breathlessly. "Edward," I say, knowing who I am addressing. He is the boy in the portrait. I know he is. "Edward," I smile, sinking down to sit with my back against the monolith. I set an alarm on my watch so I don't slip up again, then I lean my head back and close my eyes, feeling the thrum of my heartbeat vibrating through the stone. "Edward," I whisper, and the hum of his reply caresses my spine.

~*~ MONOLITH ~*~

Saturday morning dawns bright and sunny, but I've seen the forecast. It won't last. I dig through the cabinet under the kitchen sink, finding an old scrub brush and yellow rubber gloves.

"Cleaning day?" my dad asks, filling a mug with coffee.

I jump, striking my head on the underside of the counter. "Ouch! Ow, ow ow."

"Sorry, Bells. Didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay. I was thinking of giving the kitchen floor a good scrubbing. It's been a while," I say casually.

"Before breakfast?" Dad's lower lip disappears beneath his salt-and-pepper mustache. He's doing the math, and something doesn't add up. I only clean when I'm stressed or excited about something.

"Not right now, later, but I wanted to make sure I didn't have to buy anything from the store."

"Make me a list if you do need anything," he says, then leaves the room.

I sigh. I better plan on cleaning the kitchen floor now. I pour myself a bowl of corn flakes, eating so quickly that I dribble milk down my chin. I hear my father's footsteps returning, so I slow down, dabbing my mouth surreptitiously with a paper towel. He rinses his mug, puts it in the drying rack and sits down at the table with his newspaper.

I swallow nervously. He's hovering. It's not like him. I tell myself to act normal.

What do I normally do on a Saturday morning? Eat breakfast, start my laundry, knock out any homework, then I read. If it's sunny I take a blanket out into the backyard. If not, I curl up on the couch or hang out in my room. Carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies to an abandoned cemetery is not normal behavior. Not even for me.

I wash my bowl and spoon, sort my laundry and bring my homework downstairs. If my father is set on watching me, let him watch. There's nothing to see. I tell myself that, but I know it's a lie. My eyes are too alert. My movements are jerky. I'm wound tight, so tight, and I can't hide it.

I force myself to be methodical with my math homework, checking and rechecking each equation. I move my laundry to the dryer and start a load of sheets and towels. I complete a rough draft for my language arts essay then take my laundry upstairs to fold. My father is still sitting at the table, turning pages in the paper as if there's actually something interesting to read. Anything out of the ordinary qualifies as news here, but that doesn't justify his lingering presence in the kitchen.

"I was going to start cleaning the floor now," I say, once all my clothes are stowed in my dresser.

"Oh, right, of course. I'll help you move this out of the way," he says, carrying the four dilapidated chairs into the living room. He drags the table back until it blocks the doorway. It squawks angrily against the chipped and faded linoleum.

I fill a bucket with soapy water and get down on my knees to scrub the floor. It really does need a good wash, but I mourn the loss of my plan for today. My sternum aches, tendrils of pain radiating through my chest and throat with every heartbeat, making each breath a chore. I miss the stone. My stone. My Edward.

I am wiping the now-clean floor dry with an old towel when my father reappears, dressed in his uniform with his belt and holster on. "Got a call. I'm heading into the station. I won't be home for dinner."

"Oh. Okay," I reply, trying to infuse some surprise and disappointment into my voice. Inside I'm giddy with excitement. It's not even lunch time yet. I have plenty of time after all.

A few minutes later, I hear the cruiser pulling out of the driveway, gravel crunching beneath its tires. Exerting every ounce of self control I possess, I finish drying the floor, fold the linens and force myself to eat lunch. I gather my supplies and load them into my backpack, deciding to leave the bucket under the sink. It would be too conspicuous. Hard to explain. Instead, I fill two spray bottles with cleaner and water for rinsing. The rain will have to do the rest.

My steps have a bit of a bounce as I head to the cemetery. The sun is shining, and I have the entire afternoon to spend near Edward's grave. I arrive beneath the tree and feel how the stone greets me, vibrating the air with an almost audible buzz. Before I get to work, I place my palm flat against the marble and whisper, "Hello. I'm back, just as I promised."

I start with the brush, roughly clearing away pine needles, dirt and lichen. Next, I spritz the stone face with cleaning solution and scrub it vigorously, grinning as the natural glow of the marble shines through, pure as moonlight. It is hot, dirty work, but it feels wonderful. I shed my extra layers, stripping down to a tank top and jeans, and keep spraying and wiping.

Once I've touched every surface, I step back to view my work. Gray and peach-pink veins wind their way through the stone, capturing my eyes and taking them on a journey from the solid foundation stone to the cross on top. I haven't gotten all the dirt out of the intricate carvings, but the contrast between milk-white stone and darkened shadows is actually quite breathtaking. Every detail stands out in stark relief. It is a beautiful sculpture, carved with ornate arches and beveled borders in four tiers. Now that it is clean, I can see the seams where the four faces were joined to create a tapered prism.

As I walk around the monolith, I see I missed a spot. Standing on the base with my body pressed full length against the stone, I wipe away the last smear of dirt. I don't step away immediately. My skin is pink with exertion, steaming in the cool evening air. The stone offers blessed relief. It is cold at first, soothing as ice on a burn. But it warms with my body heat, humming at a higher frequency, shooting fire through my nerves until I can't even breathe.

The light is fading as clouds roll in from the ocean, but I'm no longer afraid. Being close to the stone, seeing its true, unblemished beauty, feeling the living strength that emanates from its center, it's a moment that awakens some primordial force within me. This is my place. I will never feel as content, satisfied or complete as I do here. I feel. . . happy. Alive. Free.

It is getting harder and harder to leave the stone, but my alarm is sounding. I cannot risk rousing further suspicion with my father. He wouldn't, couldn't understand. I cannot risk losing Edward.

I hurry home, shower, throw together a quick dinner and retreat to my room. Minutes later, I hear my father's car pull up. I didn't realize I had cut things so close. Or maybe he hurried home to check on me. . .

I haven't had a chance to research the Cullen family further. If I can find Carlisle and Esme's descendants, perhaps they can tell me more about Edward and the circumstances surrounding his death. My initial internet search turns up confusing results. Apparently there is a Dr. Carlisle Cullen registered in the state of Vermont. Neither name is very common, so I assume he is a descendant of the family here in Forks.

When I conduct an image search, my blood runs cold. There is a Carlisle Cullen on the University of Vermont faculty website, working from the tiny Elizabethtown Community Hospital near the shores of Lake Champlain. I know that face. He is the blond man from the portrait. His hair is styled differently and he wears a modern suit, but he is definitely the same person. His eyes stare out from my computer monitor, compassionate but watchful. . . his golden eyes.

Trembling and confused, I continue sifting through hundreds of images, mostly medically-related photographs or excerpts from research papers. Buried nine pages in is a photograph from the last ECH faculty Christmas party. The caption reads, "Doctor Carlisle Cullen presides over the community giving tree with his wife and children. From left to right, wife - Esme, daughter - Rosalie, with her husband, Emmett, and son - Jasper, with his wife, Alice. The Cullen family's dedication has revived the spirit of joy and charity in this annual Elizabethtown tradition."

I immediately recognize the younger couple from the portrait, along with the doctor and his wife. There is another couple with them, now. The man is tall and serious. His longish blond hair is combed back and glasses blur his eyes. However, there is no masking the golden gaze of his diminutive, brunette wife. She is staring at the camera with one eyebrow raised. Staring straight at me and smirking. Panicked, I slam my laptop shut.

I feel as if she is watching me even now, looking inside my head and heart. If she could, if that were even possible, what would she see? I know the answer to that. She would see a marble monument and a bronze-haired boy with lost, lonely, blood-stained eyes.

~*~ MONOLITH ~*~

Every day at school, I am careful to move and speak as I always have. Slightly disinterested, but concise. By the time another Friday rolls around, Mike has stopped bugging me. He often catches my eyes as we pass in the hall, but looks away nervously. I shrug off his curious, distressed gaze as I load my backpack with homework for the weekend and flee campus.

A weekend. A whole weekend!

My dad has plans to go fishing tomorrow. I plan out my Saturday in advance. I can complete all of my chores tonight and leave as soon as he's gone in the morning. I can be there when the sun rises. When the stone turns from gray to white, glowing opalescent and pure, I will feel it awaken.

It is Friday afternoon, so I cut my visit shorter than normal. It hurts to leave early, but I promise him I will return with the sun, and I rush home to prepare dinner. My dad seems to be watching me more than usual. Again, I remind myself not to be paranoid as I wash the dishes. Breathing naturally, I plonk myself down in front of the television with a crossword puzzle and a soda. It's something I've always done. Familiar and predictable. I hope it throws him off the scent. His cop instincts are humming.

"So, Bella," he starts in, his voice projecting his discomfort.

"Yeah, Dad?" I don't look up from my puzzle. My eyes would give away too much.

"You've been pretty busy lately. A lot of school work?"

"No, not really. Just trying to use the daylight before it disappears completely."

"You must be spending a lot of time with your classmates, then. Right? Any of these boys around here catch your eye?"

I choke a little and try to hide it with a laugh. "Boys? Really, Dad?" I scoff. Inside, my heart is racing.

"Well, I remember what it was like to be 17. I don't want you to feel like you have to tiptoe around me. Just, you know. . . be safe."

"Uhhhhh. . . ." I have no words. My cheeks are flaming. I fold the crossword in half and place it on the coffee table beside my soda. "Yeah, I'm not having this conversation with you."

"I know. Your mom already. . . I mean. . . I'm sure you're being smart. You're a good kid."

"Thanks, Dad," I croak, mortified.

I know he has been concerned about me. I just didn't realize that was where his mind was going. In a way, I'm relieved. He couldn't be further off base with his fears.

"Good," he mumbles, sinking into his armchair. "That's good. . ."

~*~ MONOLITH ~*~

Saturday morning, I force myself to wait an extra fifteen minutes after my father leaves. I pack a thermos of hot chocolate, two peanut butter sandwiches and an apple. I stuff my history textbook into my bag along with a couple of books that I might actually enjoy reading. I roll an old towel tightly and fit that into the top of my backpack. There's no reason for me to come back until evening.

A car is passing as I near the cemetery. I don't recognize the driver, but I keep walking until the car is out of sight before backtracking to my destination. Once I'm hidden beneath the tree, I relax.

Just in time. The light is growing. An orange glow softens the eastern sky. I sip my hot chocolate with my back against Edward's stone and wait. The warmth floods through me, around me, turning the stone a blushing peach, almost the color of human flesh. I turn to the side and press my cheek against the marble, smiling with tears in my eyes. It is so beautiful. So tranquil.

I hear and feel a crack. It's only a tiny popping sound, but it strikes me like a rifle shot. I gasp, my heart pounding with dread.

I reason through my panic. The stone is solid matter. It has been heated and cooled repeatedly, expanding and contracting year after year. It's a miracle it hasn't happened before. Look at all the other tombstones. Cracks, chips, worn spots. . . they happen. Erosion is natural. To be expected.

However, I'm sure my efforts in cleaning the monolith have removed the insulating layer of dirt, making daily temperature swings more extreme than normal. Maybe the cleaner I chose was too harsh, seeping into the pores and seams and degrading them further. I bite my lip, fighting tears.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, regretting my actions. Tears drip down my face, dropping from my chin and the tip of my nose, soaking into the stone.

I don't want this monument to fade, to fracture or break. I want it to outlive us all, to sit here unchanging every day of this existence. And I will visit it every day, the one constant in my life. My true home.

"I'm so, so sorry," I repeat, sniffling back more tears.

The day is warm and beautiful, a rare thing in October. As the morning stretches on, my guilt recedes somewhat. I am gradually able to reclaim my good spirits. It was only a little pop, I tell myself. Probably just a hairline fracture.

I finish my history notes and get up to stretch my legs, circling the monolith with my fingertips stroking the carvings. Hard, yet still soft somehow, the texture is enchanting. I sit back down on my towel, facing the stone, with my bare feet pressed flat against the base. It towers over me, but it isn't sinister. It's stunning. Elegant. Graceful. Hungry.

Hungry? I pause and cock my head to one side.

Yes. It's hungry. It wants me. That pull, the subtle vibration in my core, it has grown exponentially stronger. It craves my presence, just like I crave it.

"I'm here," I say, knowing it cannot respond. Even so, I imagine that it sighs. I feel it in the soles of my feet. An exhalation. A settling.

"I'm right here," I repeat, smiling, and bite into my apple.

~*~ MONOLITH ~*~

It is October 17th. There's a new moon tonight. On this clear, cloudless night, the stars will be blazing. Seeing him during the day isn't enough any more. Every night stretches out before me, interminable and empty. I can hardly sleep any more. Missing him, being apart from him for hours, it's excruciating.

I wait until I can hear my father snoring, then I slide my freshly-oiled window open and balance on the sill. The wood creaks alarmingly, but I'm committed. I slide the window shut and lower myself carefully to the ladder that I leaned against the wall this morning. My father rarely deviates from his path between the front door and the cruiser. Our yard languishes, neglected, year after year. He won't notice the ladder. I'm certain.

In the faint silver glow of midnight, I sneak down the deserted street. Nobody is awake. A dog starts barking, but I hurry past, and it loses interest. When I reach the cemetery, the stones seem to float an inch or two off the ground, my depth perception thrown off by the absence of colored light. I tread carefully, following my normal route, until I pull aside the night-blackened curtain and step up to Edward's stone.

My heart pounds. The cracks have grown. I can see them clearly, even in the dim light. I am terrified by what I've done. If it falls down, if I lose him, I will die. I will wither and drift away, hollowed out and hopeless. It isn't fair! I've been alone for so long. Now that I know how it feels to be happy and content, the thought of losing it all again tears the air from my lungs in wrenching gasps.

"Oh, Edward," I sob, creeping up to the stone.

An entire piece of marble has fallen from the spot just above my head. I brush off the dirt, using my saliva to wet the stone and wipe it clean on my shirt. I climb up on the base, standing as tall as I can to fit the piece back into the correct spot. I will bring some glue once it's light.

"I can fix it. I'll fix it," I promise desperately.

I fumble with my penlight to help me get the orientation right. I don't want to chip the fragile edges. My light shines through the dark opening into the hollow place behind the stone. Something catches the light and throws it back. A reflection.

I am looking into an eye, its pupil fully dilated and black as obsidian.

He moans, merely a whisper. But his agony is mine. The truth slams through me, nearly tearing my heart in half.

This isn't a tomb. . . It's a prison.

"Edward," I breathe.

The eye shifts. He sees. He knows.

I stumble backwards and fall, bruising my elbow on the edge of the plaque. Backing away, crablike on my hands and feet, the horror nearly crushes me.

I flee.

In my mind, I see the dark-haired girl's golden eyes watching me. Challenging me. Make a choice. As if she knew I would find that photo. As if she knew I would connect the dots. Even as I run, my lungs burning in the frigid autumn air, I know that it isn't fear that drives me away. Not fear of him, anyway. Fear of what I am about to do.

I know what I am.

My reason says it's impossible, but I know what he is.

And I know that my fate, my destiny, is written on that stone slab. I was made for him. He is my eternity.

I climb back into my room and huddle in my bed. There is no internal struggle. My decision is already made. It was made the first time I touched the standing stone. But how. . . ?

As I cower beneath my covers, my plan takes shape, a spider's web spinning itself within my mind. The symmetry is breathtaking. Of course. It makes perfect sense.

If I don't do this, I will mourn his loss for all of my existence. My pitiful, empty, meaningless existence. So really, I have no choice.

~*~ MONOLITH ~*~

I stay away for days. It is torture, but my goal gives me strength and focus. When I return, it will be for the last time. I won't be leaving again.

I'm only seventeen, but I have affairs to see to. Errands to run. Loose ends to tie. I write draft after draft of my letters to my parents until I get them right. They are both used to living without me 365 days at a time. One year will become two, then three, then five. They'll miss me, they'll mourn, but they will survive.

In my letter, I tell them that I met a boy. A boy who gives my life meaning. He makes my heart pound and my knees weak. No, I'm not just being childish or impulsive. He is my reason for living. I cannot live without him. I'm running away with him. Forever. I tell them I love them. I tell them goodbye. I seal the envelopes, drop them in the mail and set off for my final destination. I no longer worry who sees me walking to the cemetery. By the time they think to investigate, it will all be over.

Ducking into the shelter of my favorite tree, I look up and freeze. The mallet in my bag isn't necessary after all. I've been gone for nine days. Just nine days. The monolith is no more. It's been obliterated. Chunks of marble litter the earth. The Gaelic cross lies in two pieces at my feet.

I meet his eyes. His black-as-night, bottomless, tortured eyes. He doesn't blink. He is standing, bound to a solid iron post that is as thick around as my thigh. Shackled and chained at his ankles and wrists. His legs and torso wrapped around and around with fist-sized links of welded iron.

I approach him slowly and his eyes drop down, widening in surprise. He understands.

I have flowers in my hair. My feet are bare. My gown, a vintage dress from the antique shop in Port Angeles, sweeps around my ankles.

"Carlisle should have killed me," he hisses, his hungry eyes swallowing me whole. "He should have destroyed me when he had the chance."

His voice is satin and sandpaper, dry as the desert wind. The marble shards and dust continue to shiver and fall as his entire body shudders, the chains rasping and grinding together.

Transfixed, I step closer, sucked in by the pull, that insistent tug on my soul. I am trembling, too, the heat of my desire rolling off me in near-visible waves.

"It's okay. I want this," I say, my eyes wide so he can see the honesty and commitment in my heart. "I want you."

I step up on the base, grabbing onto the chains at his waist. I stand toe-to-toe with Edward, my bare feet burning into the cold marble slab. The iron post rises above his head, black and menacing. The chains around his arms and legs creak as he strains against them.

I can free him. I can break his bonds. I have that power.

He shakes his head, but he is bound so tightly that he can barely move. The marble beneath my feet quakes as he struggles. I find his hands, ice cold and harder than stone. But brittle. Fragile, somehow. I run my fingers down his, touching every sculpted joint. His hands curl into fists, the bones standing up in ridges. His clothes are rags, his flesh sinks in hollows between every bone, but his beauty still consumes me.

"Two bodies, one soul," I whisper.

I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in his copper-silk hair. I stand up on my toes and tilt my head back, back, back until my spine creaks and my jugular pulses angrily against the strain.

"No," he protests weakly, "No, please. . . Not you. . ."

But decades of imprisonment and starvation have weakened more than his body. I feel it when his resistance crumbles. He groans, his breath sweeping sweet and cold across my skin. His head bends down until his lips rest against my throat.

You may now kiss the bride.

I don't feel the pain, only the pleasure of finally touching him. The hum becomes a ringing cry, then a roar. A rushing flood of flames pours out of me to fill his brittle flesh, until the chains shatter and his arms are crushing me to him.

Arms firm, strong and hot, filled with my blood.

Our blood.

~*~ THE END ~*~

.

.

.

.

.

Or is it?

You have questions? Well, I have answers!

Yes. No. To get to the other side. Uh, 1.77245...

Wait. . . that's not what you wanted to know?

Okay, in all seriousness, here we go. . . This one-shot is from Bella's POV. It starts and ends with her thoughts and perceptions. She doesn't tell you what happens before or after because she does not know. And she honestly doesn't care. Her only goal, her only focus, is giving herself completely to Edward. Just like canon Bella, when it comes to her own safety and welfare, she is completely selfless (or thoughtlessly irrational, depending on who you're talking to).

Now, if we could flip the coin and see this from Edward's POV. . .

Did I call this a one-shot? Well, I lied! Tune in next week for Part I of 'the rest of the story'. Thanks for reading!

* * *

 **Check out the other entries on the Red Eyed Edward Contest page. At a minimum, you have to read these ones!**

 **"Blood and Water" by JMolly** \- This story was my favorite in the whole contest, and there were A LOT of great stories to choose from. JMolly paints a stunning picture of the Bengali culture, but also lifts the trap door to show the sinister shadows beneath. This story stuck with me long after I read it. Beautiful imagery, impeccable writing and editing, a real masterpiece!

 **"Mate" by sheviking** \- Take 15 minutes and read this story right now. Actually, give yourself 30... You'll want to read it twice. Very hot, but also many-layered and dynamic. You'll read it so fast that many of the nuances won't surface in your mind until later. Then you'll probably want to read it a third time, like me. *winks*

 **"Boy With a Broken Halo" by araeo** \- Who doesn't like a good redemption story? What starts out as a simple hunt turns into far more than Edward bargains for. Bella, thinking she's dreaming, throws all caution to the wind for one crazy adventure. Funny thing... at the end, Edward is the one who wakes up. The pacing, character development and plot arc of this story are perfectly contained in just 15K words.


	2. EPOV - The Final Straw

_Thanks for all of the fantastic feedback on BPOV. I hope this first installment of EPOV answers some of your question. I'm posting a day early because I can. :) Part II will post next Monday!_

* * *

PART I

THE FINAL STRAW

I return to myself gradually, my senses awakening one by one. The first thing I notice is the absence of pain. I feel warm. Calm. Completely sated. And there is a sweetness on my tongue, a fragrance in my nose, a bouquet so beautifully complex that I cannot even pick apart the notes of the sensory song. It resonates through every cell in my body, like an arpeggio played on a perfectly tuned pipe organ, the harmonics climbing higher and higher, soaring out of reach on the wings of the angels. This is heaven. This is. . .

But there is evil in the garden. A sense of wrongness skirting along the fringe, just out of sight, merely a flicker on the periphery. The honeyed silk on my tongue turns thick, the current slowing to barely a trickle.

My consciousness spreads wide enough to hear and feel the creature in my arms. Its breathing comes in tiny gasping pants, spasmodic and ineffective. Its heart flutters like a bird's, racing to move blood that is no longer there, pumping without pressure, the valves quivering, the near-empty chambers convulsing. It skips. It stumbles. It stops.

It starts as a tickle. The first hint of a scratch at the back of my throat. Then it is an itch that grows and spreads until my throat is burning once more. It has been vastly diminished, but it is still there. Merely subdued temporarily. Once again I acknowledge that the thirst is impossible to hold at bay. It is always lurking, always clinging to my heels. Like a shadow. . . Just as persistent, and just as inescapable.

The limbs turn flaccid. The muscles soften, cooling rapidly in the brisk mountain air. I squeeze tighter and tighter until the bones splinter. I suck harder, desperately trying to reclaim the euphoric feeling. I suck until the tissues begin to dissolve against my tongue, the cell walls collapsing and offering up their meager store of fluids. Too soon, even that reservoir runs dry. Resigned, I give up, running my tongue over the open wound. Lapping up the last traces of the irresistible flavor. But even that is fading.

Off to my left, a stream rushes on, oblivious to my presence. The water makes a racket, gurgling and tumbling over rocks and fallen branches. I begin to feel other things. The dirt and rocks, sticks and pine needles beneath me. Moisture soaking into the knees of my wool pants. The damp morning air, so still, cool and heavy. Water condensing along each strand of my hair, weighing it down against my scalp. Beneath my fingers, I feel the supple softness of deerskin leather and the rough, tight weave of cedar-bark cloth.

As the taste of fresh blood fades, it is buried by other flavors and scents. I smell cedar and fish oil, smoke and dirt. I taste crushed berries and fresh-dug roots in the air and on her skin.

Her skin. . .

Her. . .

I begin to shake. No. No. . . Dear God, no. Not again.

I cannot pray. That would be blasphemy. Instead I curse. I curse the monster that I am, the demon that possesses me, twisting my nature into this hideous hellspawn - yet all the while making me, so ironically, something more than human. Something they idolize and crave in the same moment that their instincts quake in terror.

I can't. . . I can't go home. Not like this. I can't meet his eyes. I can't see what he sees and still choose to exist. Because it no longer matters that my voice can move men to tears, or that women swoon as they look upon my face. I am no angel. My eyes do not lie. I am a monster, and I cannot hide it, suppress it or fight it any longer. I cannot. I have lost. And this innocent girl has paid for my weakness. My sins.

My soul cries out at the injustice. An animal roar tears itself from my throat, echoing off the hillsides. The agony is too great. Should I be twice as strong as I am now, even ten times as strong, it would not be enough to stem the flood of anguish that burns within me.

I welcome back the flames, my ever-present torture. My purgatory. Small recompense for the lives I have unwittingly, unwillingly snuffed out. I will never be strong enough, and the blood of the innocent will stain my eyes and my soul until I am destroyed.

I stand, lifting my burden without any physical effort. She weighs less than eight stone, but the emotional weight I bear is measured in tons. I force my eyes open and choke on my grief and guilt. She is so young, a beautiful native girl, with black-silk hair hanging in a single braid. Her skin, already waxy in death, is reddish brown against my too-white complexion. Her dress is made from skillfully tanned deer skin, and she is wrapped in a cloak of rough wool-like fabric which emits the pungent scent of cedar wood tannins.

Her eyes are closed. I close mine also in relief. Or maybe it is shame. I cannot bear to look upon her lifeless gaze. I cannot bear to peer through the windows of her soul and see the space behind vacant and abandoned.

Her back trail is easy to find. I walk as a man, slowly, as befits a funeral procession. The body grows stiff in my arms.

I see his thoughts before I smell him. He has found the point where my hunt changed paths, where I scented the human and veered off the game trail to find this tiny valley. Consternation swallows his other thoughts. I hear him cry out with his mind and voice.

"Edward! Brother!"

I do not reply.

He scents the blood of my kill. Moments later he comes upon the scene in the woods, and I see what he sees. The cedar bark basket of berries, cast aside and crushed. Flecks of blood on pine needles. A single hand-fashioned comb, carved from the bone of an animal, jammed into the forest floor at a haphazard angle.

His thoughts are for me. Only me. Worry for my peace of mind. Already planning the cover up. Flipping through memories of the mistakes that came before. Hah! Mistakes? Call them what they are. Murders! Does he not see the real tragedy?

I draw close to the girl's village, and I am assaulted by the raucous thoughts of a hundred different human families. Children fussing for food or milk. Men bringing in the fruits of their successful hunts. Women setting out smoked fish and firm loaves of bread, sustenance for the men as they recover from their morning exertion.

I hear a rough humming and the grinding screech of bone on stone as a man sharpens his knife, blunted from skinning a large buck.

I see a man run a work-roughened hand over his son's shock of spiky black hair before he crouches beside a fire pit to flip a piece of scorched venison onto a carved wooden platter.

I sense a granny, wrapped in layers of thick-woven cloth, seated near a fire to warm her aching joints. Smoke blackened planks are over her head, and the interior of the longhouse stretches far beyond the reaches of her age-dimmed eyes. Her twisted fingers work doggedly to punch holes along the seam of two pieces of leather with a sharpened punch made from whale bone.

I see and hear humans being humans. Simple. Natural. Beautiful. Their language is guttural, but strangely graceful, uniquely derived, and I find myself absorbing the words and cadence of their speech automatically. I whisper some of those words to the girl in my arms. Words she will never hear nor speak again. Loving words. Words of farewell.

Emmett reaches me when I am less than a furlong from the encampment. Village. Town. I have not yet picked up the word for it.

"Edward! Stop! What are you doing?"

"She deserves to be buried with her people, not left to rot in the woods."

"Stop. Stop!" he hisses, his hand on my arm, arresting my progress.

"I. . . I cannot. This is the last time. I will not. . ." I cannot continue. I fill my lungs again, drawing in the smoke of cook fires, wet leaves and pine resin, all floating around the tempting, sweet scent of the humans. "Give our father my love. Tell Esme. . . Tell her that her son is sorry for the grief he has caused."

"That's it? You selfish, self-absorbed child! That's all you have to say? And what about me? What about Rosalie?" he demands, an edge of desperation in his tone.

He does not understand. He accepts mistakes so easily, his own or those of others. Accepts them and moves on. He lives in the moment. Every day begins as a pristine page, waiting to be filled.

For me, each new day is written with a single preface. Today I live because others have died. Because I am a killer. And I will kill again. It is inevitable as the setting of the sun. No matter how bright the sun shines at midday, it will fall from the heavens. Darkness will return.

"Rosalie has you. You have her. There is nothing I can offer either of you. I am merely the perpetual prodigal," I say.

"You're wrong, you miserable wretch. You choose to wallow in your mistakes, like a child picking the scabs from his wounds. You find satisfaction in your own pain, in deepening the scars. You can see into the hearts and minds of men and vampires, yet you are perpetually blind. Your stubborn adherence to practicing self-flagellation at every turn only harms those who love you. You derive no benefit. Don't you see that?"

"Benefit? We're standing here talking about what is good for me while I hold the body of a slain girl in my arms? I killed her, Emmett! I killed her, and I liked it. I tore a hole in her throat and drank her blood. I relished it. I would do it again. I will do it again. I cannot help myself. And that is why I must die. I will not condemn another human being to death."

"Tone down the drama, brother. It was a mistake. An accident. You're stronger than you've ever been. It's been six months since your last slip."

"Oh yes. Merely an accident. Pardon me, madam, I'm sure you won't miss the six pints of blood I sucked from your ravaged body. Please excuse me," I growl, sarcasm dragging down my words. "Two per year, multiply that by however many years I am cursed to roam this earth. I refuse to carry that stain on my soul. It's over, Emmett. Leave me to my chosen fate."

"Leave? And then what? Do you plan to throw yourself at the mercy of these humans? To what end? Will they carve your flesh with their savage weapons? Drown you in the ocean? Hang you from a tree? No prison they build can contain you. No knife they carry can kill you."

"They may be unsophisticated, but they have fire. That is the only tool they'll need."

I shake his hand free and walk on. His anger turns to denial, then desperation. He turns and runs back the way he came, heading back to the home we share with his wife and our parents. He carries the news of my plans. But no matter. It will be over soon. I will be nothing more than ash long before they reach me.

* * *

 _A/N: What do you think? Is he really seeking death, or is it absolution he's looking for?_


	3. EPOV - The Treaty

_I've taken some liberties with Stephenie Meyer's canon. Trying to earn my AU designation here. ;)_

 _Thank you again to Ninkita for Betaing this story. You always seem to know exactly what to say to put my mind at ease. And you have super vision that finds even the most stealthy typos. How the heck did I miss that one? And how the heck did you notice it? I know... You're superhuman!_

 _Dear Readers, I've loved your theories and feedback in the reviews for the last couple chapters. Thanks! I tend to agree with the readers who believe Edward desires absolution but believes the only way to find it is in death. So, how did he end up imprisoned in the monolith? Let's see how many of you guessed correctly..._

* * *

 **PART II**

 **THE TREATY**

A child is the first to notice me, his thoughts reflecting shock at the color of my skin. Seconds later he recognizes the nature of my burden. He knows her.

"Hannah!" he cries in alarm.

Heads turn, and I see myself from a hundred different perspectives. I read alarm at my foreignness, then dismay as the people recognize the dead girl I carry.

With my eyes downcast, with heavy, dragging steps, I carry her to the door of the longhouse which emits her scent most intensely. I kneel on the bottom step and lay the body across the hand-hewn boards. I bow my head and wait.

A crowd gathers around me, their eyes taking in her bloodless lips, unearthly pallor and the gaping wound in her neck. The exposed flesh is bloodless and mottled, a strange peach-pink color. The hunters in the group are confused. Hannah was not the victim of an animal attack. Not any animal they are familiar with. The wolves and mountain lions that roam these mountains tear and devour, their teeth ravaging the soft tissues of the throat and stomach first. Her body only has a single wound. Her corpse is otherwise intact.

Heavy footsteps sound from within the longhouse; bare feet on hard-packed earth. A man appears in the doorway, and an acrid odor sears my sinuses, raising the hairs on my scalp. It is not a scent I recognize, but it inspires a surge of revulsion and hatred within me. I choke it down. I am not here looking for a fight. I am here for justice.

I watch his reactions through the eyes of his people, sifting through the thoughts of the gathered tribe. He is their chief, Ephraim Black, and the girl I slew is his daughter.

I bow lower, his horror and pain like an anvil around my neck. Minutes pass before I find the strength to speak. Drawing words from the minds of those around me, I raise my head slightly and greet him in his own language.

"Great Chieftain, beloved leader of the Quileute, I come to you in great sadness and shame. Murder was committed this day. I come offering justice. While your child labored diligently, gathering roots and berries on the hillsides above the joining of the great Calawah and Bogachiel rivers, a creature of the night caught her scent. He. . . No. . . I must not deviate from the absolute truth. I caught her scent and, acting on instinct, not choice, I . . . I stole her lifeblood, only realizing my wrong when her heart was no longer beating. I offer you my life as payment for my crime. Cast me into your great fire, that I may burn and eject this evil from your land."

As I speak, I listen. I watch the thoughts of the chief and the people behind me. A story unfolds within his mind and the minds of his people. A legend. The elders teach their young a tale of the brotherhood of wolves - spirit warriors that transformed in time of great need to defend their people from an unspeakable evil. An evil that they call the cold ones. The blood drinkers. Vampires.

My surprise fades quickly into relief. Their knowledge of my kind guarantees my fate. I do not have to explain why my death is a necessity. For this, I am grateful.

The crowd is in tumult, but within Ephraim's mind, a strange calm takes hold. His thoughts become still.

I look up, desperate to know his mind. His expression is unreadable. His raven hair is frosted with silver, pulled back into elaborate braids around his face. His eyes are deep brown, searching my own. I see what he sees: my unnaturally white skin, my finely carved features, my blood-stained eyes.

His mind is a deep pool, with a smooth, dark surface. He knows what I am, what I am capable of, but his emotions are tightly guarded. His grief flows beneath his other thoughts, subservient to his need to protect his people.

"Cold One, how do you know our mother tongue?"

"I pull your words from the air between us. I see the pictures in your minds. I know your legends. I am what you believe me to be. Destroy me, please. Burn me as Taha Aki did the demon from your legends. It is the only way to purge the evil that possesses my body."

Alarm spreads through the crowd as my words sink in. Their fear of my mind-reading is even stronger than their fear of physical violence. Their thoughts become frantic, flitting through every hidden memory, every source of personal shame or guilt. Every blemish on each individual's conscience it broadcasted into my own mind. Murderer. Thief. Adulterer. Liar. These humans may live simpler lives than modern city-dwellers, but the same rules hold true here as in every other civilization. They have pride. They have jealousy. They experience lust, rage, greed and every other dark emotion.

I stand and turn slowly, making eye contact with each person. The children feel the cloud of fear and suspicion and cower away. Many of them know the legends. It isn't difficult for their flexible minds to insert my face in place of the male that Taha Aki and his son destroyed so many generations ago. Several people look back in the direction from whence I came, searching for signs of my mate.

"I have no mate," I say. People gasp in response to this proof of my powers. I had intended to reassure them, but my telepathy only increases their unease. "I came here alone. My sire and his mate and one other mated pair live close, but they are not like me. They are good. They feed on the blood of animals, not humans. They are not your enemies."

"But you are," the chief says. "You. . . this contradiction. You come to us speaking the words of a pale face diplomat, carrying the body of my youngest child, dead by your hand. You tell us lies, Cold One. You promise justice? Your death will not breathe life into my daughter's body. Your sacrifice will not heal our hearts. And your voice, though you sound like a great spirit and address us in our own language, your voice raises sickness and dread within me."

Through his eyes, I see a red fog rising. His vision blurs, hot and shimmering like air cooking beneath the desert sun. Through my own eyes and those of the crowd, he seems to shake and shift, like his skin and bones are being unmade. Then he looks down at his daughter, and the anger begins to fade, displaced by something even more potent. He sobs, his grief bursting through his surface thoughts, boiling over and spilling across the crowd. His pain rushes over me and drags me under. I am peering through water, my vision smeared with tears, an impressionist painting viewed too closely. I shake my head, willing away the thoughts of the tribe, reclaiming my own senses.

I almost succeed, but one picture cuts deeper than the rest. There is a newcomer approaching, a man returning late from repairing his canoe. He hears the commotion before he sees the gathered tribesmen.

I look over their heads and see a young man, tall and muscular. His upper body is bare, despite the coolness of the late summer day. He wears a leather breech clout and carries a knife in his hand. He calls out a question, and people turn, babbling out the details of the tragedy and the incumbent threat. His eyes meet mine over their heads, deep brown against blood red.

I watch his gaze flick down to Ephraim Black, his father, clutching the body of his younger sister against his bosom. When the red tide rises within this young man, there is no diluting its power. He does not possess sufficient age or responsibility to temper his hatred. His anger eclipses everything.

His skin bubbles and splits. Fur bursts from his flesh as his bones crackle and elongate into a massive lupine beast. His people shriek and scatter as the monstrous creature bounds toward me.

I know his thoughts. I see his intentions. He will tear the flesh from my bones and scatter the pieces. He is about to grant my final wish. I choose not to fight him, even as a blast of fetid air washes over me. Sharp and blistering, the smell of werewolf drowns out the burn of my ever-present thirst. I grit my teeth and hold my breath for the end. I will die by tooth and claw. It is just.

I am so intent on the beast's advancing form that I do not hear or see the juggernaut until it sweeps across my field of vision. Emmett's shoulder connects with the wolf's ribs with a concussive sound, and the resulting crash sends them both flying into the trunk of an ancient pine. The trunk splinters, and the tree begins to topple.

Emmett recovers first, giving the tree a quick shove so it falls away from the nearest longhouse, crashing noisily into another tree, their branches tangling, whipping and snapping as they descend. Screams fill the air. The wolf lurches to his feet but falls, an agonized whine escaping his throat. As he hits the ground, his body shifts and blurs, shrinking down to human size.

Ephraim's son writhes in the dirt, his left arm obviously broken and his rib cage caved in. I see blood and broken ribs jutting out through his skin. Emmett paces over to him, looking down with curiosity and amazement. The boy whimpers in pain, but his thoughts are filled with hatred and shame.

Ephraim's eyes are clouded, but he staggers to his feet. "William!" he cries out, his hand outstretched.

I will not be the cause of more death. I will not bring more destruction to these people. I run to the boy and kneel down. His blood does not tempt me as his sister's did. If anything, the smell is so repulsive it cancels out my thirst. For him I can do something I've never been capable of before. I can heal.

William hisses and spits in my face when I touch him, but he is in too much pain to really fight me. His flesh burns beneath my fingers. Through his thoughts and my own senses, I am able to diagnose his injuries. For one second I pause, amazed. Already, his bones are beginning to knit themselves. Shaking off my disbelief, I grasp his left arm first, pulling it straight. He shrieks and faints, but his heart still beats furiously.

Emmett is watching me in bewilderment, then he looks up as another person steps up behind me. I feel a hand on my shoulder. I welcome the new thoughts with a tense smile. My father approves. This may be my only opportunity to redeem myself in his eyes before the end.

Carlisle assists me in laying the boy's body straight. Three of the ribs realign correctly, but two are broken in multiple places, the fragments floating between torn muscles and swollen tissue. Field surgery is a messy business already. Surgery without anesthesia or tools is pure carnage. With my fingernail, I slice through the skin between the bone fragments. William's thoughts are a haze of black and red. He feels the pain, but only distantly, as I manipulate the bones back into place with my fingers.

The soft tissue damage is already mending. Now that they are realigned, the bones are knitting rapidly. I sit back on my heels, feeling my father's pride overlaying my own. I do not comprehend how the boy became a beast. The entire experience has been surreal and unexpected. Werewolves have always been a myth among my kind, but at this moment he is flesh and blood, and that is something I understand.

"What. . . Who are you," hisses Ephraim, his eyes wide and disbelieving. When we make no move to stop him, he crouches down next to his son, clutching one limp hand to his chest. "What have you done to him?"

"Your son's injuries would have permanently crippled him. He was healing too quickly. We do not understand your kind, but it is evident that your son possesses a powerful gift," I say, backing away slightly. William's blood is drying on my fingers, so I rub them clean against my pants. "He fainted, but some water may revive him."

Ephraim calls out to someone in the crowd, and a middle-aged man approaches with a wooden bowl filled with water. His obedience to his chief, even in the face of a deadly threat, is edifying.

"Thank you," whispers Ephraim, pouring the cool water across his son's forehead.

William moans, but gradually regains consciousness. When his eyes open, and he sees not one, but three male vampires standing over him, he lunges up. But his injuries are only partially healed, and he falls back to the ground, shaking and groaning in agony, blood trickling from his mouth.

"Young man," Carlisle says in English, "I am Carlisle Cullen, and this is my son, Edward. You have several broken ribs and a broken arm. I do not know the extent of any internal injuries. Your body seems to be healing quite rapidly, but if you are not careful, you could cause irreparable damage. Please lay quietly. I'm sure your father will want to prepare a suitable bed for you so that you may convalesce in comfort."

"You speak of care and healing, but it was your actions that caused this!" Ephraim says, anger making his words rough. His English is good, but slow and heavily accented.

"As one father to another, I share your sorrow. I have never lost a child, but my wife has. The pain nearly killed her. There is nothing I can say to bring your daughter back," Carlisle says, looking regretfully back as the girl's corpse. "Please believe me, Edward never set out to harm her. He left to feed this morning as he has dozens of times. We live not twenty miles from here, and we hunt deer and mountain lions throughout these forests. He never intended to hurt your daughter, or any of your people. Edward may not believe what I am about to say, but I know it to be the absolute truth. He is one of the brightest, strongest, most compassionate people I know."

"Perhaps. But he has killed my daughter. And this other creature-"

"Emmett McCarthy," Emmett interjects with a grin and an outstretched hand.

Ephraim flinches back, putting a few more inches between them. "Demons," he says, his free hand clutching a talisman that hangs from a cord around his neck.

I recognize it from the images in his head. It holds ashes, remains of the vampire slain by his ancestors. It is a grim reminder of the danger I represent.

There is another cry from the crowd, and I know Esme and Rosalie have arrived. They walk hand in hand, eyes on us. They look neither left nor right, even when a brave girl runs toward them, shrieking and throwing sticks and pinecones that bounce off of their faces and lodge in their hair.

"Carlisle, Emmett," I say, backing away from my family. "There is a history here that you do not know. We are not the first vampires to make this land their hunting grounds. The Quileute have mourned the victims of our unholy thirst for generations. It is time that they receive payment for our crimes. I have made my decision. I need you to leave me here. Go home. Please."

"Emmett told me of your plan. We cannot allow you to give up, to sacrifice yourself. Think of your mother!"

"Think of the families of my victims! Think of their mothers! You who claim to value every life. You who work so hard to save a limb or an eye. . . You would have me continue on this doomed quest for salvation? Hypocrite!"

Carlisle flinches before my verbal attack. William is conscious again, watching our argument with distrust. There are five of us, he thinks. He cannot hope to win. His tribe is at our mercy, and that knowledge twists in his gut like a corkscrew.

I feel a cool hand take mine, and I know Esme will not argue. She hates my decision. She would do anything within her power to change my mind. But she also knows what it means to choose death rather than face another day of torment. She knows how it feels to hold something precious in your arms and feel it slip away. She knows the battle I face each and every day, the bitterness of failure, the guilt of destroying an innocent life. No, she will not fight me.

Esme steps in front of me and cups my face with her other hand. She sees how heartsick I am, and her face crumples. She pulls my head down toward her until she can kiss me once on the forehead.

"I will miss you," she says, just those four simple words.

But in her mind I see everything those words mean to her. I see us hunting in the wilderness of the Northern Rockies. Me playing piano as she sits listening, eyes closed and toes tapping along. Pruning her roses and mulching against the winter frost. Laying a rock wall around the edge of her wildflower garden. Strolling down a city street, waiting for Carlisle's shift to end, arms linked and hands joined as jazz wafts through the evening air from a nearby club. . . I see a thousand memories of shared joys and unconditional love, and my heart breaks a little more.

The tribe members continue to watch us, too terrified to approach, but too confused and curious to run away. Two women have claimed Hannah's body to clean and prepare it for her final journey. Ephraim and another man tend to William, stretching a blanket across his feverish body.

I stare up at the sky, at the paper-thin clouds, and wish that I had never been reborn. Carlisle is arguing with me now, Emmett joining in doggedly. Strangely, it is our women who do not criticize my decision. I look over at Rosalie. She nods once. She does not agree or disagree. But she at least offers me her respect. Carlisle on the other hand. . .

"Stop!" I yell, my patience completely gone.

The sun has finally burned through the clouds, and its light makes our skin shimmer. Ephraim is watching us, repelled, but fascinated.

"I am already cursed to burn in hell for all eternity. I am not worth the dirt beneath our feet. I do not build. I do not heal. I cannot father a family or lead an army in defense of my homeland. I have no value except to latch onto other living creatures and take their lives like the parasite that I am. Look me in the eyes, Carlisle. Look at me, and tell me that my life is worth more than that child's. Tell me to my face that you would have me kill again!"

His golden eyes melt with pity and regret, and I know he blames himself. But he also feels shame, because he would choose me. He would allow another to die if it meant that I could continue to live. He sees the proof of my corruption in my eyes, but he does not blink.

"You are stronger than you've ever been. Your life has value, even if you have not yet found your purpose. This life has been a blessing to me. To Esme. And, I hope, to Rosalie and Emmett."

"If I had someone else to live for as each of you do, perhaps you would have an argument. But I have no mate, and I never will. Let me go."

"What if we could guarantee that you would never take another innocent life?" Emmett asks suddenly, the barest hint of a plan forming in his mind.

He has everyone's attention. I see his idea and feel as if the sun has been leached of all warmth. His eyes lock with mine. I hear his desperation. He will stay with me, if I ask it of him. He will bear witness to my torment and death. But he would rather I choose life, even if I live as a captive. If I choose imprisonment, there is hope that I will eventually find the strength to subdue my urges. If I choose his punishment, I might one day rejoin the family.

Emmett is silent, but he paints a picture in his mind. A life without me. A life without music, without brotherly rivalry. A life without audacious pranks and baseball games. A life where the woman he loves is consumed by regrets, and the woman he admires as a mother mourns eternally. He challenges me to choose temporary pain, a purgatory of sorts, to pay my penance, assuage my guilt, then regain my place within the family.

"They will never agree," I say, staring him down.

"Agree to what?" the chief inquires suspiciously.

Emmett outlines his proposal: Solitary confinement, but there is a catch. No prison can contain me, not while I am well-fed. The only true way to shackle a vampire is to weaken it. To prevent it from feeding until its venom runs dry and its limbs become dessicated husks.

Carlisle is brimming with objections. He knows what it means to starve, to lose your mind to the thirst. He has memories of a vampire who was punished by the Volturi after falling victim to Caius' sadism. First Alfons had his limbs removed and burned before his eyes. Then the helpless head and trunk was left to wither, shackled mere feet away from a live human. Close enough to spark his thirst, but just out of range of his teeth. Alfons had earned Caius' hatred for disagreeing with the Volturi commander about the guards' feeding rotation. He was imprisoned for three years before Aro finally granted him the only reprieve available. Death.

I meet Rosalie's eyes. She knows which path I will choose. If I can leave Esme with the slightest shred of hope, I will. Rosalie, if she had slipped even once, would have willingly submitted to the torment. I stand guilty of more than a hundred murders. How can I do less?

"If the noble chief will allow it, I accept your proposal," I say with my head bowed.

"I won't allow it!" Carlisle cries. "You have lost your mind, son. And if you haven't yet, you will. You don't know what you are choosing!"

"I know exactly what I am choosing. It's either this or death. There are no other options."

"No, father," William objects in his own tongue. "It is a trick. They will murder us in our sleep. They will drain the blood of our children. Avenge Hannah, let us kill the monsters. If you will not, I will!"

"You are wrong," I interject. "My family is no danger to you or yours. Look into their eyes if you require proof. Their eyes are golden, while mine are crimson. They drink only the blood of animals. You hunt deer, do you not? How are they any worse than you?"

"Human blood. My sister's blood," he chokes out, his hatred for me blazing.

Again, I sense the heat rising in him. He cries out in pain as his limbs begin to twist and morph, the poorly healed bones fighting the change.

"William. Son. Calm yourself. Please. We need you, but we need you whole. Rest now. The Great Wolf will protect us." Chief Ephraim Black climbs stiffly to his feet, and I realize how old he is. He fathered children late in life with his second wife. His Imprint. "As one father to another, my heart demands vengeance, but my spirit calls for mercy. We will spare your son on two conditions. He will be imprisoned one year for every life he has taken. And neither he nor any member of your coven will set foot on our tribal lands again for as long as the sun rises and sets. This pact is not negotiable. It cannot be changed except by my word or that of my descendants."

My father hesitates, his eyes begging me to change my mind, to flee with them and never return to this cursed place. I do not blink. I just nod once, urging him to accept the terms of the treaty. His eyes slip sideways to the cook fire that burns brightly not twenty feet from where we stand. I do not require a gift to read his thoughts.

"You have my word. As the leader of this coven, I accept the terms of your pact. My son, Edward, will be imprisoned for one hundred and fifty seven years without nourishment. At the end of this term, I or one of my family members will release him from his bonds so that he may rejoin our family and feed as we do, on the blood of animals, not humans."

I bow my head in shame. He knows, has known all this time, the exact count of the blackened divots in my soul. How can he know and still call me son? How did he welcome me back into his home, knowing the human cost of my rebellious immaturity?

I feel Carlisle's hands on my shoulders, and I raise my head.

"You wonder how I can love you. You wonder how I can be proud of you. Read the truth of my words. I have never known anyone who has fought so hard to be good. And you are good. I know you feel as if you are inhuman. Cursed. But no son of Lucifer would ever regret his failures. Edward. . . you are the most human man I know. You are not a monster."

"I appreciate your love, faith and confidence, but you are wrong. In that moment, when I lose myself to the thirst, I am."

William clutches his blanket around himself and clambers to his feet. He towers over all of us, even Emmett. His eyes are black as coal as he stares me down.

"You may have fooled my father, but you do not fool me. I will be watching you. I will stand guard outside your prison. I will not relax my vigil until I am certain that you are no longer capable of escape."

"You will have your revenge. And I will have peace," I say.

I kneel in the dirt and wait as the two leaders confer. Light and dark, aging and forever young, both noble and selfless.

A young woman creeps carefully closer. When I do not move, she scurries to William's side, bringing him a tray of fish, roasted roots and fresh berries. He thanks her softly, the love in his voice impossible to hide. He notices me watching, and in a blink the hatred returns, darkening his brow and sharpening his features. I close my eyes and wait, still and silent, as Emmett, Esme, Carlisle and Ephraim prepare my prison.

It takes four days.

My thirst is growing already, but the burning in my throat is dwarfed by the wolf's ever-present stench in my nose. He never stops watching me. He has not closed his eyes to sleep or left my side this entire time. His body has healed completely, his bones are as straight and strong as they were before Emmett's counterattack. He practices shifting, pacing circles around me as a massive brown wolf, his ears, tail and muzzle tipped with black. As he man he stands before me nude and unashamed. He flexes his muscles and cracks his knuckles, taunting me the way boys do, trying to elicit a reaction. I know his thoughts. He is hoping I will lose my temper and lash out. That will give him the excuse he needs to defy his father's order and tear me to pieces.

When all is ready, a procession begins. It is a long walk from La Push to the cemetery near our home. I find it ironic and mildly amusing that my family is planting my undead body in the local cemetery.

Ephraim binds my hands with hand-made ropes. It is purely symbolic, but it comforts his people. Ephraim walks on one side, his son on the other. My family honors the newly-minted treaty and waits beyond the tribal lands. Walking at a human pace, the journey takes several hours. It is dark when we reach the graveyard.

The area is deserted, and I wonder how my family managed to ensure our privacy. I pick the answer from Rosalie's mind. They have organized a harvest celebration in the center of town, providing food and refreshments the likes of which the loggers and millworkers are rarely able to afford. We will not be disturbed.

The quaint graveyard comes into view, and I finally see the fruits of Esme's labor laid out in five pieces. It is magnificent. The symbolism is not lost on me. Even in my exile, they are claiming me as part of their family. The Gaelic cross mocks me, but I don't say a word to object.

Emmett makes a show of demonstrating the strength and rigidity of the post I will be bound to, planted six feet deep into the ground and several feet of concrete. The chains were purchased from a shipyard, designed to anchor an ocean-going vessel. Even at my strongest, I would have to exert myself to break the welds. After years of starvation, I will be helpless.

The four faces of my prison are carved from Italian marble, taken from the materials left over from building our house on the outskirts of town. It seems that, even in my solitude, I will be surrounded by reminders of my family. I will draw strength from that. And comfort. One hundred fifty seven years sounds like a life sentence. I remind myself it is only a blip on the continuum of eternity. It will pass.

I step up to the iron post, and with my eyes fixed on the setting moon, I allow the Quileute men to bind me. William is shaking, the heat of his hatred burning the air between us. When he is satisfied that I am truly helpless, he spits at my feet and backs away. Esme and Rosalie observe silently as Emmett and Carlisle assemble the pieces of Esme's creation around me. Carlisle stands before me, his features rigid with pain. In his mind, he begs me once more to flee with them, to start fresh in a new home.

"Good bye, father," I say, then look back to the moon.

His mind stalls on a picture; a human boy wracked with fever, lying at death's door. He looks at my changed face with love and regret, then his jaw tightens, and he slides the final piece into position, shutting out the light.

I close my eyes, relax my muscles and begin to count. Seconds pass, followed by minutes. . . hours. . . days . . . then months. And eventually years.

* * *

 _A/N: Yeah, I know. Kind of a downer. Part III posts next Monday. You need to read something cute and funny to cheer you up while you wait._

 _Are you reading **Tricophilia** by 2old4fanfic? Story ID 11522885. (WIP)_

 _Edward has nursed a crush on his childhood babysitter since before he could pour himself a bowl of cereal. The feature he remembers most vividly is her hair. Long, brown, flowing hair is hard-wired into his brain as the symbol of unconditional love, comfort and every ounce of unrequited lust in his poor body. Now an adult, he meets the object of his affection once more, and his perfectly ordered existence is turned inside out._

 _This story is full of surprises and told from the POV of the most naively self-centered Nerdward ever written. Absolutely a must read!_


	4. EPOV - Purgatory

_This chapter is late and therefore unbeta'd. My unruly muse decided that there was something more important to write first. You'll see that other story sometime in the next 4-6 weeks. For now, please forgive whatever typos I missed._

* * *

PART III

PURGATORY

The first year is the hardest, perhaps due to the fact that, during this period, I still have the strength to break my bonds. Not moving is a choice; a choice I must commit to over and over again.

I think back to the final moments before my incarceration frequently, almost incessantly. I am overwhelmed by the emotions of my family. The guilt and regret. The sickness over what they have allowed. The fear that, when they do return to release me, I will no longer be who I once was.

In the beginning they take turns watching over me. Rosalie comes at nightfall, replaying the minutiae of the day within her mind so that I may add to my bank of memories. Through her thoughts I watch Esme painstakingly practicing the piano. She rehearses the songs that I taught her over and over again, although I do not recall playing them for her with such halting sadness.

Esme visits in the early hours of the morning, greeting each new gray dawn with stubborn hope. One day gone. One day less. She does not speak to me, not aloud, but she hums. Sometimes her voice slips into a lullaby, and she is mourning the boy who died too early. Other times she hums the song I wrote for her, and I know she is lamenting the loss of our friendship. She carries her sadness like a cloak. It hang gracefully from her shoulders, sweeping around her as she moves, knotted at her throat and pulled tightly over her heart.

Emmett drops in randomly, sometimes with Rosalie, often times alone in the middle of the day. He does talk out loud. And he wanders. He tosses a baseball as he speaks to me, giving me the highlights of the latest game, sharing news reports of technological innovations and current events. Foreign powers are on the brink of war, and many Americans are calling for us to join the fray. I wonder what the earth will be like when I am released. The Great War changed so much, the scars gouging deep into the American psyche. Our leaders can't possibly be considering diving into another conflict so soon. Their memories are too short, their emotions too volatile.

Some moments I wish I could speak to him, ask him questions. But if I inhale, all I will taste is metal and stone. If I speak in this echo chamber, the sound of my own voice will drive me insane. If I allow my will to travel beyond the stone barrier, I will want to fight for my freedom. No. This was my choice. I am dead to the world. It is dead to me.

My family comes and goes day after day, but one mind is always present, his hateful thoughts hammering into me with the regularity and force of a pile driver. William prowls beneath the trees at the edge of the forest, my stone prison always within sight. Most times, the picture is flat and gray, the lines drawn so stark and clean that I imagine the scene could have been etched with a blade. Sometimes I see it from the perspective of a human, the white monument towering over the pencil-thin fir tree Esme planted alongside it.

The fir tree glows with every shade of green, the Celtic symbol of honesty and truth. Its trunk is a symbol of strength, and the evergreen needles are a testament to the enduring nature of our love and friendship. It stands as a beacon of hope and a promise of life to come in the spring, once the long dark winter has passed. Resilience. Longevity. Endurance. Already it is taller, its roots digging deeper.

Cynically, I imagine it falling prey to lightning or a windstorm long before my sentence is done.

A young woman brings my self-appointed warden food every day, making the long trek alone and on foot. Through his eyes I see her blushing and turning away as he changes into his human form before donning a worn leather breech clout to sit with her and eat. His thoughts and emotions oscillate wildly when she is near. His fear for her safety battles with his thirst for revenge. His desire to lose himself in the pleasure of watching her fights with his need to keep his eyes constantly on my prison.

Seven weeks after my imprisonment, the people of Forks gather in the cemetery to bury one of their own. He was a millworker. While changing a damaged saw blade, he lacerated his arm. Despite cleaning and bandaging the wound before he returned home, he fell prey to infection and died eight days later. In their ignorance, his family waited until it was too late before taking him to Carlisle. The infection was already in his blood, attacking his heart and other internal organs. He died in misery and pain.

After so many weeks of mental silence, only broken by the controlled thoughts of my family and the now-familiar growl of the wolf, the cacophony of human minds is excruciating. Even worse than their minds, the sounds of their bodies moving torture me. The breathing, the gurgle of digestion, the liquid rushing of their beating hearts. . . every animal sound serves to magnify my thirst until I am quivering with need. My skin abrades the chains, and my clothes, caught between, begin to wear through in spots.

William is watching closely, his thoughts daring me to break free and attempt to feed on the humans. He taunts me with images of broken bodies, blood spilling in a crimson flood across pristine marble. Unbeknownst to him, his nightmare images only serve to bring me back to myself. He unwittingly strengthens my resolve, and I subdue the beast within me. I have never wanted that, never craved pain and bloodshed. It is only the thirst, the all-powerful thirst. . .

Eventually the mourners disperse, and it is quiet once more. It is just me, the wolf, and the fire in my throat.

The days pass on, each second the ticking of a clock, every minute the swing of the pendulum, each hour chiming its passing in the empty hallways of my mind. My body continues to metabolize the blood from my last meal. My store of energy drops quickly at first, then more slowly. My course is set. I am weakening already.

I feel the sun as it rises, the stone around me warming gradually throughout the day. I feel it pass overhead at noon. Then the lea of the stone falls into shadow, cooling and contracting as the afternoon turns to evening.

The rain patters down, sometimes a mere sprinkle that fills my ears with the skittering sound of tiny droplets fragmenting against the stone. Other times a storm passes over, and my prison becomes a cone of white noise.

As my body dries out, I become more sensitive to the tides of the moon. It is a cruel and painful contradiction. The little moisture that flows through my veins rises and falls with the tug of the moon's orbit, shifting my very cells against one another. I fall into the rhythm of its gravitational force, relaxing slightly as the tidal pull crests, making me feel lighter, diminishing the pain that has now spread to my muscles and viscera. During the ebb, I settle somewhat, my weight resting more fully on the chains and the concrete beneath my feet. My bones ache, my muscles cry out, and the thirst beckons to me, taunting me with the memory of that warm, ambrosial flood that drowns every hurt.

The monotony is broken one night when I hear Carlisle's thoughts approaching. It is the first time he has visited me since my interment.

"Son. . . I've come to say good-bye. It's been three years since our arrival, and we cannot stay much longer without raising suspicion. It's times like these I miss your talent the most. We would risk staying a while longer if we could monitor the thoughts of those around us."

He stares off into the woods, and I know he is looking for the wolf. William lurks in the shadows, his heart muscle sending out a wet, thumping drumbeat, his breathing slow and even. He is waiting, poised to rush at Carlisle should he show any signs of touching my prison.

"We'll be back," my father continues, his voice apologetic. "Not for some time, but we will not forget you. We will return once this generation passes on and we can move back without raising questions."

He steps closer and looks down at the plaque they planted before me. He gave me his name, claimed me as his son in truth. Carlisle is silent for several minutes, but his thoughts are a whirlwind. He finally settles on one image, the day he brought home a small, leather-bound book and told me to record what I could remember of my human days before they faded away completely.

He is afraid I will fade away.

"I've been keeping a journal. I write in it every single day. I look forward to the day when we can sit down and read the entries together, when you can rejoin us."

William watches and listens, his suspicion and distrust bubbling as the rest of my family appears and joins our sire, standing together to say farewell. I grit my teeth against the urge to call out to them. This is the real test. Of my commitment. Of my humility. Of my submission to God's justice.

My throat has ceased to itch and burn. My pain has transcended such simplistic terms. After sixteen months and twenty three days without nourishment, every cell in my body has lost its strength, and only the crystalline walls hold their form. The venom that used to flow between and through my cells has all but metabolized completely. There is no lubrication, no healing. If I move so much as a millimeter, my tissues grind against themselves, setting my nerves on fire. To inhale, to call out, to even attempt movement would be agony.

Despite my absolute certainty that the pain will kill me, the desire to break free and beg them to welcome me back into the fold is more powerful than my fear. Whatever commitment I had before flags in the face of abandonment. I suck the stagnant air into my lungs, preparing to speak, but my vocal chords refuse to cooperate. They are solid as glass, releasing the barest vibration, a resonant hum that is lost amid the nocturnal sounds around us.

I flex against the chains that bind me. Metal that once pressed hard against my skin now leaves me room to twist and slip my shoulders up and down. But that is all I can do. I turn my head from side to side, my eyes straining to see anything in the blackness. Three inches of marble, not one shred of light.

The multifaceted image of my prison slips away as my family turns to go, and I am left with one picture: A white monolith, abandoned on the outer edge of human sorrow. I watch the sun setting from within the wolf's mind, colorless and stark, underscoring my total isolation. Now I know pain.

William does not drop his guard. Not that day, not the next. He does not trust that the Cold Ones have really left without a fight. He sees hideous, misshapen versions of my family attacking his tribe in his dreams. His paranoia grows day after day until he cannot even speak to his Imprint when she arrives to bring him sustenance. He smells our scent in the wind and sees white figures slipping through the trees in his peripheral vision. He refuses to shift form, growls when she tries to sooth him, and snaps his teeth angrily at the air when she gives up and leaves.

Then one day, she does not return.

His thoughts are consumed by fear and guilt. He has to make a choice. Will he trust my word and move on with his own life, start a family and learn to lead his tribe? Or will he sentence himself to a prison that mirrors my own? He finally understands what I have known all along, that the warden is as much a captive as the inmate.

His thoughts swing wildly day after day, and his need to be with his Imprint grows inexorably, eventually dwarfing even his fear and hatred. The first time he leaves his post, it is a spontaneous decision. He is hungry, and the desire to sit before his Imprint as a man, to eat by her side and stroke his fingers through her hair, becomes an instantaneous obsession.

He bounds away, taking his tumultuous thoughts with him. I sag in my bonds, experiencing true silence for the first time in almost two years.

When he returns several hours later, there is a calmness about him. He has seen his people, unharmed and living their lives. He has spoken with his father about the other threats and hazards that will change the course of their lives and futures. He has seen for himself how the old chief's body is deteriorating, and the mantle of leadership, his birthright as the son of the Quileute chief, is already starting to temper his rash emotions. And he is in love, practically consumed by it.

He settles back on his haunches and watches my prison, more out of habit than need. He sleeps, and his dreams are full of dark shadows and warm flesh. I turn my thoughts inward, trying to block out the intimate thoughts, but I cannot help the bitter surge of jealousy that adds a new dimension to my agony.

When the sun rises the next day, he returns to his village and stays away until nightfall. This becomes routine. So routine that I begin to look forward to the sound of his massive paws pounding through the forest as the sun sets. Every evening he brings a fresh collection of thoughts and memories, and I devour them, thirsty for any distraction.

Then one night, he does not return. I wait night after night for almost three weeks. William returns as a man. Two feet, not four. Color in his eyes and conviction in his mind. He has served his tribe well. The threat of the Cold Ones has passed away again. He believes me to be helpless.

He is correct.

Not a single drop of blood has passed my lips for five years. I could not break a toothpick, let alone solid iron.

Five years. . . Five years of pain that ebbs and flows in synchronization with the sweeping journeys of the sun and the moon.

Five years alone with my thoughts.

Five years alone with my guilt.

Yes, I am losing my mind, and I have only completed three percent of my sentence. That thought makes me laugh, but laughter is only a tremor in my diaphragm, a near silent vibration that sends shearing streaks of pain throughout my body.

And still, I count the days.

In the spring of 1946, there is an unexpected commotion nearby. A crew of seven workers arrives with picks and shovels and begins to dig in the open field beside the cemetery. I latch on to their thoughts ravenously. While periodic funerals give me a taste of life beyond these walls, the misery of loss neutralizes whatever pleasure I stand to gain from the experience. This. . . this is different.

The men are planting an orchard. They bring lunches in tin pails and sit on the low cemetery wall, and they talk. I hear laughter. I see joy. I learn to appreciate the nuances of the human experience that, until now, have felt like little more than a shallow layer of impulse and instinct, barely controlled by intellect.

But even this new empathy is unable to stifle the creature within me that counts every ventricular contraction, measures the pulse and pressure, calculates the volume of fluid each body holds, imagines how mind-numbingly perfect it would be for that delicious blood to be pouring down my throat. . . I am split in two - dreading every new day, but straining my hearing to its utmost limit for the sounds of the crew returning.

For the next three years, a man comes to the orchard regularly, raising the trees by hand. He fertilizes and mulches, stakes the supple trunks against the threat of harsh winds, sprays the leaves to deter bugs and blight, and picks off the tiny green apples to allow the trees to mature. Every autumn he shapes their future growth with judicious pruning.

His love for the orchard is enchanting, and I watch the trees thrive under his gentle care. The first harvest has an air of celebration. A team of men descends on the orchard, their wives and children joining the work crew, while the smaller ones play tag and munch on windfalls. The gathering has a celebratory air. I feel their pride and excitement, and the muscles around my mouth tense up, trying to smile.

An adolescent boy, brought by his parents to help with the picking and the cider press, wanders around collecting dandelion puffs. He strays further and further from his parents, comes to the edge of the orchard and looks into the cemetery. His eyes settle on my prison and widen. He is fascinated. And so am I.

There is something special about this boy. There is a fog around his mind, a strange resistance. I do not know how to describe it. It feels almost plastic, sticky as mud, a barrier of sorts that makes his mind seem far off and distorted. I have to strain to see beyond the input he receives from his senses to look at the thoughts that stir beneath.

I have become so dependent on the minds of men to keep my own intact that this resistance to being known troubles me. Why are his thoughts obscured? What humor, what insight, what delicate musings are being withheld? What gems are buried from my sight?

The harder I focus, the more I am struck by a peculiar sound. There is a resonance to his heartbeat, a melody that floats behind the rhythmic contractions. It is a song that transcends hearing and strikes a higher note, a more finely tuned sense. Something deeper and more primal than taste, touch or smell.

There is an ethereal ringing in my mind that grows with every step he takes. The closer he comes, the more fully it develops, until I feel its echo in my chest. For the first time in eight years, I take a breath, almost sobbing through the pain triggered by movement. I call out to him, begging him to come closer, but the only sound that escapes my atrophied vocal chords is a sibilant hiss.

He halts with one knee bent and one straight, in the act of taking a step. I sense a question in his mind, a formless, open inquiry. I take another agonizing breath, but a new voice arrests his attention.

His mother is calling from her station by the cider press. "Geoffrey Daniel Swan, come back here at once! Your father has been calling for help with the ladder for going on five minutes now. You can't go gallivanting off by yourself every time the mood strikes. We have real work to do here, young man!"

With a single backward glance, he returns to the harvest, carrying pails and stone jugs between the pickers, the press and the trucks lined up on the road. By the time the sun is dipping toward the horizon, the children are wilting, falling asleep with tummy aches, matted hair and sticky fingers. Geoffrey spares my prison one final glance before his father prods him into the back of the truck with the other boys, admonishing him to make sure the jugs stay upright as the procession trundles back toward town.

The truck engines start up with a roar and the whole party disperses. The song fades with them.

I am exhausted. Depleted.

It is the monotony, the seamless passage of time. It is the repetition and the regularity of change that becomes its own mind-numbing pattern. The minutes, the hours, day after day. The months, the seasons, year after year.

It is fall again, almost time for another harvest. I anticipate the scent of ripening apples every time the man arrives and opens his truck door. When he deems the fruit ready, my body sings. The crew arrives as they did last year. The families unload blankets, tools, supplies and equipment. So many minds, so many thoughts, so many faces. But one, the one I have waited for these last three hundred and fifty eight days, he is nowhere in sight. I pick through the thoughts of his family meticulously, waiting for a clue.

Aha. There it is. He is at home with his leg wrapped in plaster, recovering from a broken leg.

I am in anguish, but I cannot tell the cause. Concern for his health or anger that I have been deprived of the song for another year? I search for the notes within my own mind, but this time, my perfect memory fails me. I cannot synthesize that song. Not without my counterpart.

As soon as the people depart, trucks laden with bushels upon bushels of fruit, I begin my countdown to the next harvest. Another year fades and a new one begins. The man visits his orchard as it blossoms, the trees stretching their branches higher, broader, fuller.

The orchard is performing beautifully. He is thrilled, and so am I. Then he makes a decision that crushes me.

He is ready to retire. He sells it to a newcomer, a face I do not know. This new man hires men to pick the fruit once it is ripe. They work quickly and efficiently, strip the branches bare, box up the apples and load them onto trucks. There is no excitement, no revelry. No screaming children or friendly competition. They drive away and take my hope with them.

Geoffrey Swan is not coming back. I must acknowledge that fact. Now I may never find what I seek. Somehow, that song has become my new source of meaning. Without it, I am nothing.

A part of me is disturbed by this train of thoughts. Am I losing my mind? Am I going insane? And if this is my mental state after merely a decade, where will I be after fourteen more?

* * *

 _Where indeed? Judging by how chatty Edward is, this may stretch out into 6 parts, but no more than that. I promise._

 _Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!_


	5. EPOV - The Promise of Dreams

I missed you guys! And this story. Actually, writing in general. So, since I was desperate to make some progress, I found an hour to type and squeezed this in. I know it's short. I also know I'm neglecting On The Line and Mosaic. *sad face* The holidays are nuts!

Special thanks to Random Rita for rec'ing this story on Rob Attack!

This scene was never supposed to be a stand-alone chapter, but it didn't really fit with the previous chapter, or the one that follows... so, here you are!

* * *

The Promise of Dreams

Reality slips and slides around my mind, my synapses firing in fits and bursts. I am sinking into another realm, a place where the physical demands of this body no longer factor into any equation. But time… that is constant. The date is March 5, 1954. The sun rises at 6:48, waking the squirrels to their chittering errands. The sunlight warms my prison, and I blink my eyes, imagining that I am only blind, that I am not trapped inside this interminable blackness. My eyelids scrape across my corneas, the agony of movement devoid of lubrication a firm reminder that I am still me.

A familiar mind draws near, and I focus with effort. William is a man now. The chief. I sense his reluctance to step out into the open. He holds a girl by the hand, his firstborn child. He tells her the story of his sister's murder, outlining the details and stipulations of the treaty formed between my father and his own. He dwells on the horror and bloodshed, driving home the threat of the Cold Ones.

The girl is young, not yet six years old, but she nods solemnly in understanding. Her mother has lost two tiny babies already, so she knows she may one day marry the next chief, may one day mother the next generation of wolves. She has seen her father transform many times, ridden on his back, fallen asleep nestled beneath his warm, shaggy mane. The wolves are strength. The wolves are pride. The wolves are the salvation of the tribe.

Ephraim has passed away, and William is determined to instill wariness and caution into the new generation. He fears that they will become complacent, allowing the former chief's compassion and softness to take the place of rational fear and preparedness.

He eyes the monolith suspiciously, wondering if I am indeed inside, or if it has all been an elaborate hoax. He sniffs the air, but smells nothing more than dirt, pine sap and moss. Less than an hour after their arrival, the pair departs, disappearing from my diminishing range within moments.

My guilt, even after hearing my crimes recounted with such hatred, no longer oppresses me. I am slipping back into the quagmire of my fragmenting memories when I hear my name. A voice speaks directly into my mind, sibilant and haunting, sounding like madness.

"Edward…"

I cannot respond, but I listen. Who are you? I call back, but my lips do not move.

I am struck numb by the images that follow. Crystalline and bright, iridescent as sunlight bursting through the mist above a waterfall, I watch a dream unfold.

I see a woman walking toward me, her gaze slipping down to my feet and back up to mine. As if she knows me. As if she owns me. She taunts me with her eyes, golden-hued and playful. She challenges me with her wit, flinging stinging barbs of sardonic humor my way, softened by a sidelong wink. She speaks of books I have never read. Musicians I have never heard of. She mesmerizes me with her figure, her legs bare and shapely beneath frayed denim, her hair flowing in rich waves around her breasts and shoulders to sweep her narrow waist. And she reaches for me, her fingertips smudged with ink, begging me to take her hand.

Her laughter is magical, making me weightless as a feather. Over and over, I watch her lips shape my name. With irritation, with love, with curiosity, with impatience. I watch her mouth call out my name in ecstasy, and the space beneath my sternum clenches like a fist.

I cannot see past the pictures to the mind behind them. I cannot hear past the siren song to the thoughts of the messenger. These are not my memories, they are lighter than anything I have experienced in all the days since my rebirth. These are not my own thoughts, my mind has never been this creative. These are not hallucinations… or are they? If so, I embrace my insanity. Time presses on, but I no longer care.

The messenger slips away, a whispered thought curling past my senses. "Patience…"

I gasp out an unintelligible "Thank you," before impatiently pulling forth the first picture, watching every motion of the unnamed beauty as she runs toward me, joy painting her eyes brighter. "Edward!" she cries, and my stone heart melts. I move to the next, and the next, and the next, immersing myself in the promise of dreams.

* * *

 **A/N: Tis the season for contests!** The **Age of Edward Contest** now has 17 stories up... Wow. Some of these are incredible! And they have a banner contest running, too. Entries are due by January 3rd. Voting begins on the 10th.

The **Control, Possess, Seduce Contest** is accepting entries beginning next week, clear through until February 19th. Uuuuhhh... it's going to be hot. You should be grateful Carrie and Nic are running this contest in the middle of winter.

And... Cheatward's Spot (a FB group) is hosting a **Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey Cheater's Contest** , accepting entries after the New Year from Jan 1-22. Nothing kicks the intensity up a notch like the ultimate betrayal. How will our favorite characters handle it? I guess you'll have to follow the contest to find out!

I may or may not be writing or Betaing stories for one (or all) of the above contests. Soooo, I hope to see you there! Oh yeah, and I'm Maggie Chambers on FB. :)


	6. EPOV - Midnight Sun

_A/N: I wrote this instead of going to bed. I love sleep, but I miss writing so, so much. And I hope I never get this bogged down by life again. Thanks to Chrissie, Ankita, Alanna, Kim, Dawn, Diane, Margaret, Fran, Archy and all the other lovely women who have reached out to me these last few months. I love and appreciate you all!_

 _Since it's been so long... Last chapter Edward had a few visitors. William brought his daughter to show her Edward's prison and tell her about the Cold Ones and the treaty forged between the Cullens and the Quileutes. Then, some time later, an unnamed visitor arrived. She spoke directly into Edward's mind, inserting visions of a female vampire with brown hair and golden eyes. The stranger urged him to be 'patient'._

* * *

 **EPOV Part V - Midnight Sun**

Once upon a time, I craved the presence of human minds. Hikers, orchard workers, mourners and random passers-by; their thoughts brought me entertainment. Sometimes base, sometimes tragic, but entertainment all the same.

Now I find them irksome. They are too loud. Their trivial thoughts disrupt my focus, sending the images of my beloved scattering like shards of broken glass, which I must then painstakingly find and reassemble. Despite my irritation, I admit it is a task I revel in. Piecing together a blink here... a tilt of the head there... a curve, a shadow, a glint of sunlight on a luscious bottom lip... until the puzzle is complete and I can begin again, reliving that moment when she first sees me and smiles.

She runs toward me, her form filling my vision, eclipsing even the brightness of the sun. I yearn for that moment, a mere blink away, when she will touch me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her breath washing over me… but it never comes. I shift to the next series of images, my hope unending, my anticipation and desire never diminished, despite infinite disappointment.

One day… One day I will feel her touch. She will whisper my name, a loving sigh against my cheek. One day I will taste her on my lips. One day… she will be mine.

The messenger said to have patience.

Patience.

Patience.

Patience.

I don't want to be patient any longer.

The men, the sons and grandsons of those who marvelled at the marble monolith when first it appeared, barely look up from their work. On those rare occasions when they stop to wipe the sweat from their foreheads, I can see how tall the fir tree has grown. It towers over my prison now, casting it in shadow. It all but blocks the sun, so the light only strikes the monolith when it rises in the morning and again as it sets. When the clouds don't obscure the sun, that is.

At some point in the early eighties, the gravediggers cease visiting my cemetery. A majority of the plots are occupied, and the people of Forks have moved their ceremonies to a parcel of land several blocks north of the town center. It is no loss. There was never anything new or fresh in their minds anyway.

The pendulum has slowed. I have slowed. And the only part of me that still lives is the part that loves her. That yearns for her. That strokes my memories of a non-existent past softly, so softly, sooo… soft… ly…

It begins as a quiet hum, so subtly sweet that I do not notice it immediately. At first it is nothing more than a harmonic backdrop to the pictures that slip continuously through my mind. As time passes, I begin to feel a rhythm in the song, an ebb and flow not unlike the cadence of the tides. At times the hum is almost near enough to taste its magic, while other times I believe it has all but disappeared, and I live for months in near silence. When the tide draws higher, it invades my mind with such insistence that I cannot think. I resent the distraction, the way it tries to pull my thoughts away from her.

In my dreams, I lift my arms, stretching them wide to accept her embrace. The muscles in my arms and hands twitch, sending shear agony up into my neck and shoulders. I would eagerly endure this pain for all eternity just to feel her body against mine. This pain and more.

What began as a distraction eighteen years ago has grown into an undeniable force. One day the music swells louder than ever before, a crescendo of such staggering beauty that I am saturated in the sound. Without warning, the song ends with a crash of drums and cymbals. From the midst of the cacophony a single note emerges. It resonates within my prison, the note so achingly familiar that I almost believe death has finally claimed me.

The sound shatters my focus completely and the visions of my beloved fade. I grasp desperately at the images, trying to contain them, but they fly away, twisting and cavorting beyond my grasp like feathers in the wind.

They take my hope with them.

Above the wrenching pain of my loss, the note carries on. I am finally forced to acknowledge it. To consider what it means.

There is no way... It cannot be. It is impossible. Geoffrey has returned?

More than fifty years have passed since he first approached my prison. He is an old man now. Perhaps that is why the song has changed. It is richer now. Sweeter. Louder. But his mind, the window to his thoughts, is completely obscured. I cannot see. I am blind. Or perhaps he is? But I have met blind people before, and their thoughts are as clear as anyone else's, despite the absence of visual cues. This is different. So completely different.

My heart is pounding. My heart…

No. That cannot be right. Not mine. His.

Geoffrey is here and his heart is racing, the wet thud and swish of blood awakening my tastebuds as if I feasted on human blood just yesterday. It is not a distant memory. It is right now. The present. Succulent and silky, slipping down my throat to pool like magma in my belly, burning away the pain and leaving nothing but dizzying pleasure in its wake.

I sag against my bonds, craning all my senses for more of him. His footsteps become louder as he draws closer to my prison. He pauses. His breathing is quick and shallow. I beckon him closer with my mind, with my will. He takes a step. Then another. As the gap between us narrows, the song of his blood lifts me up and crushes me with its beauty.

I want.

So much.

To consume him.

More brilliant than a sun burning a hole through the night sky, Geoffrey's presence shines through me. I am transparent. A wraith. A ghost of my former self. To have him is to be real again.

With slow, shuffling steps, he walks around the monolith then stops before me. I hear the scrape of sodden earth against stone. Again he walks around me, his fingertips trailing across the cold surface, whisper soft but so warm. Then his hands are pressed against the stone that covers my chest. I shake as the stone heats around me, and I realize that there is an answering hum singing through the marble walls, like the sympathetic vibration between two tuning forks.

My diaphragm spasms, and a sigh slips past my bone-dry lips.

I hear an answering sigh on the other side.

Time halts, the truth echoing through the hollowed-out walls of my mind.

This human is not Geoffrey. My singer is a woman.


	7. EPOV - Alone

Hey, ladies and gents. (There are a couple guys out there, I know that for a fact. *winks*)

Writing time is still barely a trickle, but here's what I have so far. For those who have asked, I will continue both On The Line and Mosaic of a Broken Heart. I'm trying to clear a couple things off my plate so I can put my focus back on finishing those monsters. ;)

* * *

 **EPOV PART VI - Alone**

The sun seems to plummet from the sky and, too soon, she withdraws her hands, her heat, her heartbeat. I no longer count seconds, just those sanguine contractions which, though faint, still hammer against my eardrums. The night creeps by, and I wonder if she will return. Geoffrey never did. But her song is louder than his. She came closer than he did. I don't know what it signifies, but she felt my presence. I know she did.

I fight against hope. I tell myself to expect nothing. I stubbornly turn my inner vision back to my beloved, methodically scraping together the fragments of thought that should have formed a picture, but no longer do. Instead the images throb to the sound of a human heart, shivering and shaking and falling apart. Over and over I try, but fail. As dawn breaks, I moan in frustration and admit defeat.

I follow the song as it slips further away, until it is nothing more than a whisper-soft hum that tickles the space behind my eyes. Human minds buzz around and behind it, undecipherable as anything more than white noise, like the crackling sound of a poorly tuned radio.

Yesterday she came to my prison late in the day. I cannot help how eagerly I await that hour, pleading with God to bring her back to me. He must know that I cannot be alone any longer. And this woman, this singer, has banished my one true companion. Now she must return to me. I deserve that much, do I not? There is a vacuum in my soul, and only she can fill it. She must fill this void. After all I have endured, surely God will grant me this gift.

Unless she is the opposite of salvation. Perhaps she was sent from hell. Perhaps this woman has been deployed by Satan to tempt me, to torture me, to obliterate my resolve and unmask my true nature. I am, after all, nothing more than a monster.

Apparently, even monsters can hope.

The day drags on, rain sifting down between the branches to splatter against my stone prison. I try to turn my head, to better listen for her approach, but the pain is too much. I give up, exhausted, trembling against my bonds. My palsy shakes the stone beneath my feet, and the vibration of the iron post sends an eerie hum through the interior of the monolith, a bass note that somehow amplifies my singer's heartbeat.

No. I am mistaken. It is truly getting louder. She is actually coming closer. Closer.

Her steps quicken, her heart races, and she is rushing toward me. My whole body flexes with the hunger, the need to burst out and claim her. I am beyond all reason. There is no trace of humanity within me. All that remains is the thirst, and the absolutely certainty that I must have her, or else…

She stops.

I rein in my thoughts and focus, trying to discern what she is doing, what she is thinking, but the wall around her mind in impenetrable. All around me is the distant, irritating buzz of human minds, but from her I hear nothing. I wish her closer, mentally coaxing her past whatever stumbling block lays across her mind. For several moments there is no change. I am shaking with the effort to cast my will beyond these walls when I sense a quickening of her pulse.

Yes… She is moving again.

My throat clenches, my fingers curl. She approaches me at a fast walk, weaving slightly to avoid physical obstacles, but coming steadily closer every second. I hear the rustle of branches, a swish of fabric and a dull thud, then her hands are finally pressed against the stone, and she is laughing.

That sound, it fills me with delight. It transforms the solitary note into a symphony, and I forget what it means to be thirsty. What it means to hunger. That sound floods my senses with an euphoric feeling.

Her blood is so close, but I want it to be closer. I want to pull her through the very stone and into my arms. I want to embrace the heat and the life that emanates from her with every breath. I tug against my chains, headless of the pain, eager to be even a centimeter closer to her.

I do not realize that the sun has set; her presence is so much warmer, so much brighter than any celestial body. But she is pulling back. Reluctantly, I think. Her steps are heavy and hesitant until she reaches the road beyond the wall, then she is running away from me. Her flight reawakens the beast, the hunter that would pounce on her back and tear her throat open if I were not too weak to speak.

I am ill equipped to fight this feeling, broken as I am by the loss of her heat. Her departure unleashes a bitter chill. I never noticed the cold before, but tonight I feel as if a pillar of ice is climbing up into my chest. I am alone again. My only companions are the pain of her absence and the hope that she will return tomorrow. The two forces battle within my mind, scattering desperation like shrapnel. The pieces lodge in my flesh, and I burn.

I whittle away the interminable night by reliving the last several hours, revisiting every breath, dissecting every movement, until I can no longer tell if it is I who live to consume her, or she who exists to possess me.

A new day dawns, and I realize that I am more alive, more alert than I have been for decades. The hour of her return draws near, and the anticipation builds within my chest. It grows and grows until my limbs shake with the frenetic twitching of an addict deep in the throes of withdrawal.

As I strain for any sign that she is approaching, the sun sweeps past its zenith and descends degree by degree. I hold onto my hope until the hour is long past, and my eager anticipation follows the sun over the edge of the horizon and into despair.

She did not return.

Why? The question torments me. If it were not for the silence of her mind, I would identify clues and construct theories, but I have only my own imagination to call on. It is a lean and wasted thing. I cannot see how such closeness and joy yesterday could evolve into antipathy today.

As the sounds of night surround me, all of the energy bleeds from my limbs, and I sag against the post. I am grounded in my solitude. For the millionth time I tell myself that this was my choice. She was sent to remind me, and I have learned my lesson well. This is the fate I deserve. It is right and just.


	8. EPOV - One Spirit

They say 'slow and steady wins the race'. I sure hope they know what they're talking about. Here is another 'short' addition to Edward's story. Thank you for your patience!

* * *

 _Last chapter, Bella surprised Edward by returning for a second visit. On the third day, he waited impatiently for her arrival, but she never came. Now, we all know she had an important errand (investigating the Cullen mansion), but he doesn't know that..._

One Spirit

I bury myself in the fog, that numbing veil that swallows time itself, willfully casting my thoughts and emotions away. I do not want to exist. What do I have to live for? I have not yet served half of my sentence. The years stretch out before me, promising nothing but a wasteland of boredom and pain. Without my beloved, I have no joy. Without my singer, I have no pleasure. Even my love for my family is not great enough to make me want to endure this sentence any longer.

I wonder if I can create a spark, strike iron against stone with enough force to ignite this pathetic carcass. But, no. I cannot move with sufficient speed or force. Even if I could, the air within my tomb lacks the oxygen to fuel my funeral pyre. I laugh, a bitter cough of fetid air… I cannot even suicide.

I dream of new possibilities, new paths of escape. My cynicism serves me well, and I imagine a multitude of ends, from packs of vengeful wolves that crush my body into finest dust with their teeth, to earthquakes that open the earth's crust and swallow me whole.

My favorite idea is both dramatic and catastrophic. I dream that a storm will pass overhead, and lightning will strike the tree. The trunk will split and fall, crashing into the monolith and exposing me to the elements. The air will crackle with energy, and another bolt will follow the path of the first, disintegrating my wretched body and casting me into the abyss. At last.

I calculate the odds, dividing the regional average number of lightning strikes each year by the area of land in square meters. In any given year, I have a one in forty million chance of being freed by the fire. I further divide this by the years remaining in my sentence, and the odds dip into the 1:500,000 range. While the odds are terrible, they are not as hopeless as I originally thought. In fact, with the amount of iron in my hitching post and chains, my chances of finding oblivion before my sentence is over are most likely much higher than I would have thought, initially.

I play with the idea, exploring my new fantasy, as I listen for sounds of far-off thunder.

Instead of thunder, I hear a steadily beating heart… and footsteps. Slow then fast, erratic as my thoughts, I do not just hear them, I feel them, like a flurry of down strokes and flams playing a motley rhythm on my bones.

Stumbling against the cemetery wall, she laughs, breathless and joyful. My whole being wakes to the sound. Her feet carry her closer, and I crane my senses for more of her lovely voice. Then she speaks, and I freeze in wonder.

"Edward," she says, like a greeting between old friends, held apart for too long.

She is right before me, her presence like a torch, blistering hot and brilliant. I feel as much as hear the way her hair catches against stone, her clothing brushing down the face of my prison as she sinks to the ground at my feet.

"Edward," she sighs again.

Her words seep between the stones, and I lean in, soaking up her adoration. I lift my hands, only an inch, but I feel the heat of her body. I want to touch her. To taste her. To drink her in.

Her voice is a contented hum. "Edward…"

My reply rises from my throat, an involuntary response, an exhalation of the desire and need that now fills every empty space within me. "Mmmmiiiine," I say, and it is only a whisper, but the word swells beyond the confines of my prison, singing through the stone to caress her tender flesh.

She will not leave me. I will not let her.

The hours pass, and I bask in the pleasure of her heat. Then a shrill sound blares, unexpectedly shattering my calm, destroying the beauty of the moment.

She curses, but stands up and leaves immediately, her hands brushing down the face of the monolith as a parting gesture.

I am frantic, hissing through the pain as I strain against the cursed chains. Despite my resolution, I have no power over her. She walks away, her steps brisk and decisive. Embittered and lonely, I think back to her simple spoken words, her mouth shaping my name. I form a picture in my mind; lips and tongue, white teeth and warm flesh. I imagine drinking from those lips, caressing the surface slowly with my teeth, drawing a fine line across fragile skin, until a single crimson bead wells up, before spilling over to wet my lips.

I imagine a taste as complex and delightful as the song that flows between us. I imagine a scent as intoxicating as aged wine and red roses at twilight. I picture her in the shadows, impressions of smooth skin and soft flesh, as she tilts her head back, willing prey, and welcomes my final kiss.

My body shakes, ravenous and desperate. She must return. Soon. So I sing, a gently humming harmonic to draw her back, to draw her home. My soul, my singer… we are one spirit. For She can only rest in me, and I in Her.

* * *

 _A/N: I was so honored when Sunflower Fran invited me to contribute to Words of Love for Meli - a tribute to Meli, a fandom writer who is battling breast cancer. While these stories are dedicated to Meli, I hope you will all take some time to check them out. They are filled with love, compassion, humor and strength... things we can all use at various times in this crazy journey called life. Oh yeah, and melistories recently hit the 'complete' button on her story Without A Smile id: 11278440. Because you're never fully dressed... without a :)_


	9. EPOV - Feast or Famine

**Feast or Famine**

Now I know she shall return. She cannot deny the power of our bond. So I wait for her, counting the seconds.

The dawn breaks with a shower of birdsong, and I recognize something strange building within me. Optimism? Rosalie would never believe it. Even the fact that I am thinking of my adopted sister surprises me. My family has been largely absent from my thoughts ever since that mysterious messenger planted pictures of a beautiful stranger in my mind.

My thoughts scatter as the singer draws near. There is a sense of nervousness and excitement in her step. She comes close and rests her hand against the stone covering my heart.

"Hello. I'm back, just as I promised."

She did? I do not recall. Is this statement a hint of what flows beneath the surface of her impenetrable mind?

What is she doing now? My enclosure is filled with a rough brushing sound. Scratching and scraping, the noises swirl beneath her constant humming and muttered words.

"Gosh, this is just filthy. When was the last time you had a bath? Never mind. I've seen the dates. But it's an awful shame none of your family stuck around. Not that I blame them. This is Forks, after all."

I wait for her to continue. What does she know about my family? She hums a few bars of a song I do not recognize then changes the subject.

"I think I need a job. And a car. If I'm going to be staying here, there's no way l'm hitching a ride with Charlie whenever I need to go somewhere."

Charlie? He must be close to her if he is willing to drive her around town regularly. A low growl tickles my throat, and my limbs twitch in impotent anger.

"Although he'd probably jump at the chance to keep an eye on me. Mom's not nearly so protective."

Ah. A father figure, not a suitor. I relax minutely.

She continues her ministrations for more than an hour, and I bask in the flood of words and music. She is random and uncensored. Every new breath brings a different thought. It is exciting, titillating. I have never been so enthralled.

Her feet hit the ground with a thud, and she backs away, breathing heavily. The silence is unexpected, stealing through the cemetery and wrapping around us like cotton batting.

"Beautiful…" she breathes in an awestruck voice.

With slow, shuffling steps, she wanders around behind me, then comes to a halt on my left.

"How did I miss that?"

Then she is stepping up onto the base, pressing her heated flesh against the stone, rubbing the marble surface. I expect her to drop back down immediately, but she doesn't. She leans in, and her heart is pounding right there beside me, mere inches away. The wet thump excites the monster within me, so all I can see, hear or taste is blood... Blood rushing through me, over me, saturating every cell.

I am stunned by how suddenly the connection between us changes. Seconds ago I craved her voice, her thoughts, those tiny glimpses of her spirit. Now the only sound I wish to hear is that tiny gasp as teeth break skin and the rush begins.

The shrill sound from yesterday cuts through the air, and I grind my teeth in frustration. I listen as she gathers her things and leaves me in chaos.

~*~ MONOLITH ~*~

She hurries to meet me each afternoon, and I drink in every sound, knowing that the hideous alarm will ring before night falls, and she will once again abandon me to my solitude. Although I am not truly alone any longer. Even when she is miles away, I can sense her presence. Even when her heartbeat disappears beyond hearing, the strange music sings on, ringing in my skull.

The transition between her absence and presence is jarring, more so with every passing day. Each day, excitement and dread consume me as I anticipate the moment when she will touch the stone. When her lifeblood begins to heat my prison, it invariably awakens the monstrous thirst. The second she speaks out loud, I am able to subjugate the madness and revel in the beautiful symphony. But when she sits silently, when all I hear are the animal sounds of my prey resting at my feet, the palsy grips me. In those moments, I am nothing more than a demon, shaking with need, until the iron post hums and the stone itself rings with my desire.

Day by day our bond strengthens. I thought all my energy was spent decades ago. How is it that I am now awakening? Not just my mind, but my body, too. How can I bend my fingers and flex my arms? The pain, though astronomical, is merely an afterthought. She makes me want to shatter these chains and run free. It is a dangerous dream, but an insistent one.

The sun is rising on this, our twelfth day together, and she is already resting at my feet. She is not speaking, only humming softly beneath her breath. I smile a little as I hear her take a sip and swallow. She often brings food and drinks along, extending her vigil for hours.

Then she sighs, "Edward…," her voice brimming with a hopeless longing as powerful as my own.

I answer, not with words, but with a reflexive bolt of energy that snaps through my limbs and yanks the chains to their limit.

CRACK!

I freeze.

No. It is not possible.

But it did happen. I did not imagine the stone beneath my feet shifting. She felt it, too. I sense her panic, and I stand as still as death, waiting for her to run.

"I'm sorry," she sobs, grief making her voice thick and rough.

As am I. She is crying. I hear the droplets striking stone, and my own throat convulses with shame.

"I'm so, so sorry." Her voice is desolation and despair.

I long to take her in my arms, to shelter her, to ward off the sadness which threatens to choke us both. I touch her in the only way I know how, singing the song that owns my soul.

The sun is beginning to warm the air, and my singer settles back down, her bodily systems returning to their familiar, reassuring rhythm. I listen as she reads aloud from a text book, reciting dates of foreign conflicts that I never knew transpired. Carlisle's journals must fill an entire bookcase by now. I have missed so much. I am very much like a fossil, merely an imprint of a life that once was, cast in stone.

Rather, I was. Until she appeared.

She is moving, stretching, walking slowly around the monolith. I follow the winding, wandering path of her fingers as they trace Esme's ornate carvings. Her touch is driving me mad. The subtle vibrations of flesh against stone filter through the air to brush over my skin. She touches me like… like…

Visions flash through my head. Esme's fingers caressing Carlisle's shoulder as she floats past… Emmett's hand resting low on Rosalie's hip, his thumb gliding soft and slow up and then down again…

She touches me like a lover.

I want… I no longer know what I want. To drain her or to hold her? To worship or possess her? It is madness. I am insane. But I want…

"I'm here," she says, answering my plea. "I'm right here," she repeats, a smile lifting her voice.

Then her teeth crush through the skin of an apple, and my knees buckle.

* * *

 _A/N: We're getting closer. Thank you for your continued patience and support, and thanks for reading!_


	10. EPOV - Forbidden Fruit

Forbidden Fruit

The nights have become harder and harder to endure. From the moment her alarm sounds, to the second her hand once again rests against my prison, I am in agony. I cannot stop shaking. The vibrations seem to find every natural flaw in the stone, spreading microscopic cracks like fault lines. The edges are eroding; I can taste the dust in the air. Now each section of stone resonates at a different frequency, creating an atonal chorus that only amplifies my restlessness.

Perhaps she feels it. She is becoming increasingly distressed. When she visits, she runs to join me, pure joy in her voice. But then she stumbles away in the evening, anguish whistling in her throat.

Then do not leave, I think. Do not ever leave me, if it hurts you so.

But still she jumps the moment her alarm sounds, gathers her possessions and departs.

Tonight, she is crying. She sniffs and sighs as she takes her leave, and I am overcome by anger. She is hurting. She needs me. Me! And I need her, too. This hurts too much. I cannot go on…

I rail against the injustice. Star-crossed lovers, indeed. I do not even know her name. Sadness becomes rage, and I thrash within my chains, throwing my weight against the welded iron links over and over until I hear more than the pops and cracks of splintering stone. The marble edges are actually screeching against one another as the post leans and the base shifts beneath my feet.

Then I feel movement in the air itself. Fresh air seeps in between the cracks, damp with rain and smelling of-

I inhale…

It is a scent unlike any other. Sweeter than honey, richer than claret, it sears my senses until the thirst flares hotter than the sun.

That scent…

Everything is relative. Age. Size. Density. Pain.

I thought I knew pain. I thought I understood thirst. Once upon a time, I believed I had experienced the uppermost limits of both. And desire… Yes. That, too.

I have perspective now. On a relative scale, I had no concept of Pain. My Thirst was merely an irritation. And Desire… that was nothing more than a strong word for 'want'.

No. What I feel now is the essence of all three, amplified by time itself. It is all I can manage to remember that I am Me. I am. And this feeling, though it may own every part of me, it does not erase who I am.

I hear her approaching. That is impossible. It is night. Or is it? There is no trace of light, but can I trust my eyes when they have seen nothing but blackness, trapped between these four walls for more than six decades?

Sounds pour through the rifts in the stone, crisp and loud, hammering against my ears. Her heart beats like a bass drum, pounding through my skull, and her voice tears a hole in my chest.

"Oh, Edward," she sobs, bending down before me.

Then she stands, steps up, embraces my prison, and her scent swirls around me. Tear me to shreds, set me ablaze, it could not burn me more completely. I am faint. I feel my mind falling away, disintegrating beneath the onslaught.

"I can fix it. I'll fix it," she says, desperation twisting her voice.

Then my world is exploding with light, stars colliding across my retinae. I cannot quell the moan of agony that slips past my parched and wasted lips.

"Edward," she whispers, and my eyes are drawn to the voice of my singer. My tormentor. My destruction.

In the face of my insanity, she recoils, scrambling away on all fours like an animal. And, like an animal, the beast possesses me, intent on bloodshed. I twist and buck against my chains, taking vicious pleasure in every crack and pop, throwing my weight against the post until dust and chunks of marble are raining down on me.

I am decades of agony. I am rage. I am Tantalus, and this thirst will never release its hold on me. I am my thirst.

Seconds before I cast off the final threads of my humanity, the sun crests the horizon, burning through the mist and setting the cemetery aglow. The stones are bathed in rose pink and tangerine orange. Droplets of azuline hang suspended in rays of pure energy.

My mind cannot process the sensory assault. I close my eyes, reeling. And that is when I realize what I have lost. She is gone. She will never run toward me with joyful anticipation. She has seen the monster. She knows the truth.

I open my eyes and and let them burn, staring into the rising sun. How long until I am discovered, starved, nearly naked, chained beneath this tree?

A chickadee lands on the branch before me, pecking sporadically at the red velvet mites that crawl between the needles.

"Behold the birds of the air, for they neither sow, nor do they reap, nor gather into barns: and your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are not you of much more value than they?" I recite. My voice is a whisper of dust, eerie and alien. "Yes, Father. I know my value."

I close my eyes, hang my head and wish that William would reappear to relieve me of the burden of living.

Ironically, the song carries on in the distance, more chillingly beautiful than ever before.

~*~ MONOLITH ~*~

I try to empty my mind of all thoughts, but the singer always creeps back in. Her song will not be silenced. Even if I could cover my ears, I know it would still ring through my mind, overturning every attempt to direct my thoughts elsewhere.

Days have passed since the catastrophe. The number does not really matter. Before that night, I had hope, I had pleasure, I had her love and adoration. Today I am bankrupt in every way imaginable.

Then, without warning, the song begins to climb, louder than ever, a magnificent crescendo of radiance and joy. And with the song comes a chant, a pounding heartbeat to drive home the final measures of the symphony. My chains vibrate in response. The friction grows until my skin burns. The song, the scent, my punishment and my thirst, these forces are tearing me apart.

I hear a gasp and raise my head, opening my eyes in wonder.

I am dreaming. It is my beloved, the woman from the vision, appearing as if by magic beneath the overhanging branches of the fir tree. But she is young, so young. Dressed like a bride in white lace and silk ribbons, with a pale blush adorning her cheeks, she is the manifestation of every young man's fantasy. She would have been my fantasy if I were still Edward Anthony Masen, idealistic, naive… human. Her hair flows loose around her shoulders, and she is crowned with a circlet of yellow rosebuds. She takes a step forward, then another, her bare feet dancing around the shattered remnants of the monolith.

She raises her face, baring features more precious to me than any other being on earth. Her eyes are brown, not golden, but they shine with recognition. It is impossible. I have never seen her before. Not really. She has only ever existed inside my head.

Ice worms its way through my entrails. Now I see. She is my curse. She starred in the false dream planted by a demon decades ago. These past weeks, she has been the siren who usurped my free will. The angel of my dreams is my greatest nightmare.

"Carlisle should have killed me," I say, clenching my hands into fists lest I reach for her. "He should have destroyed me when he had the chance."

She comes closer, smiling, and I recoil against the post. I feel more of the concrete crumbling beneath my feet.

"It's okay," she says. "I want this. I want you."

The heat of her body makes me dizzy. The scent of her blood makes me burn. As she steps up onto the dust-littered platform, slivers of stone cut the soles of her feet. She does not flinch, but I do. A red mist rises up around me, blocking my vision.

I cannot escape. I am her prisoner. Her fingers find mine, and her touch awakens a different sort of madness. I am possessed by an overwhelming urge to wrap my arms around her, to embrace every temptation I have denied myself in this lifetime and the last. Those lips taunt me, shining pink with saliva and plump with hot blood.

"Two bodies, one soul," she reminds me, confirming what I have told Carlisle all these years. God has abandoned us soulless creatures. There is only one destiny for us. We live in torment until we cease to exist. There is no salvation.

I press my lips together and turn my head away, but her hands slip behind my neck, into my hair, tugging me closer.

Dear God, why? Your son starved in the desert for 40 days, and you allowed the dark one to tempt him three times. Am I so lost that my torment must carry on for all eternity? Please, please, please let it end. Please…

But my prayer goes unanswered. The only thing I hear is the clamor of cymbals in my ears and the gush of blood inches from my parched lips.

I know with absolute certainty that, if I succumb to this temptation, I will never go back. Once again I will live by blood, I will live for blood, and Edward will be no more.

She stretches her neck until I feel her vertebrae pop with the strain, and the sweet scent of her blood rises up into my nose. Involuntarily, I part my lips. I taste her on my tongue, and my throat clenches, swallowing air.

I feel my resolve weakening. I have never been strong enough, but to persevere as I have, to endure as I have, and then to destroy it all in a moment of weakness? No. I will not.

Her fingers flex, her nails scraping against my scalp, and I think of all the times those fingers caressed my stone prison, how I yearned for that touch, how I dreamed that there was no stone between us, just flesh against flesh.

Now I see the absolute folly of my resistance. Some supernatural force created her with me in mind. Her voice, her mind and her heart...they all call to me. Her blood sings for me. Her body molds so perfectly against mine. It is as if she was designed for the sole purpose of destroying me. And I hate her for it. I hate her more than myself.

I do not want to hate. I do not want to destroy. Because if I kill this woman, this child really, if I crush my last and final prayer for deliverance, I will be a demon for all eternity. If she was anyone else, anything else, I could find a way to recover and rebuild, but to drink from her, the forbidden fruit, would be crossing the point of no return. There is no bridge back across that chasm.

And, like the edges of a chasm, my will crumbles. She feels me weakening, and her heart accelerates. I am losing control. I cannot fight us both.

"No," I gasp. It is the end. "No, please... Not you…"

She lets out a soft moan, a triumphant cry, as my will caves and my lips brush against her skin.

Her taste is more perfect than I imagined, shining light across all the dark and broken stretches of my mind. And when her skin splits against my teeth, and those first succulent drops spill across my tongue… I… I am…

I am unmade.

* * *

A/N: Still with me, Dawn? LOL Don't worry... It'll all be okay in the end.


	11. EPOV - The Land of The Living

The Land of The Living

There is light, so much light, expanding faster than I can follow. It ignites my synapses and coats every nerve with a fire that does not burn, bursting forth with the song without words. This explosion of light and sound happens not once, but a million times, a trillion times, taking every shriveled, starved, brittle cell in my body and blasting it back to life.

It is surreal, almost magical, to feel the absence of pain. My eyes roll back as the ecstasy sweeps down my spine, flooding my bones, my organs, my viscera with healing light. I have left this earth altogether. I am soaring through space, weightless and free.

My chains shatter, and I hear them fall to the ground, but the sound is distant, filtering up to me through the roar of a river, engorged by torrential rains. That river is galloping down to join the ocean, and I am the rider, struggling to keep his seat as the forces of nature reshape the land. I am prepared to relax my hold, to cast myself recklessly into the deluge, but a whisper of sound arrests me.

" _Edward…"_ It is a simple caress, a final goodbye.

 _One day… One day I will feel her touch. She will whisper my name, a loving sigh against my cheek. One day I will taste her on my lips. One day… she will be mine._

I remember thinking those words with such certainty. _Who is she?_

I clutch my prey closer, feeling bones creak and then snap. I drink more deeply, trying to force the memory, but the images are bathed in light, white hot and blurred like magnesium burning in pure oxygen. Think… think! _It is important._

I remember she was lovely. Not gorgeous, not perfect, but perfect for me, with eyes that challenged and lips that teased. And she was precious to me.

She _is_ precious to me.

She says my name like a prayer, and laughs for no reason at all. Her touch awakens feelings that I do not comprehend, but I am desperate to explore. And she is giving herself to me, body and soul. Body and…

 _My God-_

I sense the body in my arms, feel how the curve of the skull nestles so perfectly, almost weightlessly, against my left hand. My right hand creeps down the vertebral column, counting the bony promontories, 22… 23… 24… and then my fingers glide, trembling, over the sacrum. I spread my fingers wide, cupping the curve of muscle and hipbone, a human hip, and my gorge rises.

She slips from my grasp and falls to the ground, her skull striking the marble plaque at my feet with a sickening _crack_. Her eyes are still open, just barely. She is watching me, and her lips turn up at the corners in a tiny grin of victory. This weakling, this human, has vanquished death... but not her own.

I watch in horror as blood continues to pump from the hole in her throat, the spurts already weakening, bubbling in time to the rapid rise and fall of her shattered rib cage. Her lips shape my name once more, but no sound escapes.

I reach for her frantically, but my chains snake around my ankles, and I lose my footing, falling face down in the mud. I claw my way free, pulling her abused body close. She is cold, too cold. I don't know what to do.

"Carlisle!" I cry, shrieking out my sire's name with voice and mind, but my vocal chords seize, and the sound does not carry. He is far away, too far for me to hear him, too far for me to sense him, and she is dying, dying in my arms. Dying by my hand.

"I'm sorry. So sorry," I sob, holding one hand against her throat to staunch the flow, but my hands are shaking, and her lifeblood continues to bubble between my fingers. "Dear God, please. I'm begging you… don't let her die. Don't die. Please don't leave me. I love you, I love you, I love you," I sob, burying my face in her gore-soaked gown. Her hands twitch, and she faints away.

Without warning, hands are closing around my wrists, hooking beneath my arms, tearing me away from her. I scream and thrash against my assailant, but I am no match for her strength.

"She's mine," I shriek. "Don't touch her!"

A second vampire crouches beside my beloved, and I fling myself forward with all the desperation and heartbreak within my soul. My captor's grip slips, but holds, and the blond male looks up in alarm.

Suddenly, I feel nothing. I am dead inside, as if a wave has swept through my mind and erased every emotion. I sink to the ground, numb and confused.

They converse over my head, fast but precise.

"It has to be now. Do it quickly."

"Do you have him?"

"I do now. Please, Jasper. Now!"

I watch as this scarred and feral stranger lowers his mouth to the wound in her throat. Where is my horror? Where is my fear? I watch, fascinated by my apathy, as his body grows rigid. Without warning, my vision blurs red, and the thirst crushes me. I lurch forward on hands and knees, desperate to bite and swallow. The female's arms and legs twist and bind my limbs so I can hardly move.

She cries out in anguish. "Jasper, stop! Please... She is my sister."

The male is poised over her pale and broken body. The fiery thirst disappears as suddenly as it came. His back hunches, and his fingers tear into the damp soil, fingers curled like claws. He is shaking. He looks up at us with eyes dilated and mad with the thirst, but he is in control once more.

I am staggered by his strength. To taste that blood, that perfect sweetness, and to stop? Impossible! I could never…

But I did. _This time I did._

My beloved is still breathing, and I see the awful wound in her neck no longer bleeds. The edges are joined, sealed with venom. But her heartbeat flutters, the muscle weak and starved for oxygen, starved for blood.

"Take her. I can hold him. But go now. We have less than a minute," the female cries, and images I cannot comprehend are crashing through my mind. She lives, she dies, she lives, she dies… she lives, but only if Jasper can get to Carlisle in time. Wait… _Carlisle?_

He nods in understanding, although my mind is more muddled than ever. I sit, blank and helpless, as the stranger scoops my dying bride into his arms and flees.

Within seconds, my own emotions return, and I buck against the stranglehold of my attacker. She doesn't open her mouth, but her voice fills my head.

 _It's going to be okay. Relax, Edward. Let go. She's going to be okay. You just need to be patient a little while longer._

I know this voice, I know this mind. Patience, it commanded, and I was patient. I was patient up until the moment when I almost destroyed the greatest gift ever bestowed upon me.

She releases her hold on me, and I slip sideways and fall, my broken mind unable to determine what is real and what is just another layer of my insanity. Because nothing, not one single part of this madness, fits.

Who is this woman? She called my beloved her sister, but the human, my singer, is young, too young to be the vampiress I dreamed about all those years. My mind chases itself in circles, round and round, up and down, tangling itself with the impossibilities, the inconsistencies.

I am still in the stone. I must be. It is the only explanation that makes sense. I am truly insane, trapped inside the marble monolith. I will never be free.

"You're a moron, you know that?" the female snaps out loud, walking around to stand in front of me.

"I…"

She is not very tall, but her presence is like a storm system, putting a tangible force on the air around me. I try to sit up, but my limbs are not responding correctly.

"You need to feed. You're burning through blood faster than a newborn. You need to heal. Follow me."

I shake my head, my stomach heaving. Blood… Her blood… _Oh God…_

I am on all fours, retching violently as blood pours from my mouth and nose, splattering the stones until they glow like rubies in the dim light.

"Fucking A. Are you kidding me? Get up." Her fingers twine in my hair, and she tugs me to my feet, even though I stand a full head taller than her. "I guess I should at least introduce myself. I'm Alice. That was my husband you just met. Jasper. He knows what he's doing. He's done it a hundred times… well, we won't talk about that. Anyway, I would hug you, but… no. You need a bath, and this is my favorite shirt. Yeah, I didn't see that one coming. Look, you need to feed if you're going to be in any shape to help Bella when she wakes up."

"Bella…?" I ask stupidly.

"Bella. Yes. Your singer, your mate. Isabella Swan. Jeez, she's been babbling on about everything under the sun for weeks and couldn't even find the time to say her own name. Patience. Yeah, I could use some of that. Follow me. Let's hunt."

"I can't. No… no… I can't-" I protest, memories of my last hunt swarming up from the depths to haunt me.

"You know that old cop out saying, 'I am not my brother's keeper?' Yeah? Well, luckily for you, I am. Let's go," she snaps, and I fall into step beside her, unable to argue with the force of her commands.

Each step is excruciating. My muscles spasm and twitch, contracting at odd times, so my gait is that of a newborn foal. I turn all of my focus to moving in a straight line and not tripping over any obstacles. Images flit through my mind, premonitions that strike split seconds before my foot catches on a branch or my ankle turns on a buried stone.

Soon I catch on. These fragments of time, like predictable deja vu, are brief glimpses into the future. My future. I find myself fascinated, smiling as I successfully vault over a rotting log that would have collapsed beneath my weight.

"Now you've got it. Do you smell that?" my guide prods, and I do.

It is musky and sweet, but with a sour tang. I know that scent. It is deer, and I remember that, while not exactly good, it was satisfying. It filled me. It made me strong. And I am seeing the world in layers, flying through the woods once more. I turn when my path turns, I jump when I see myself fly, and before I can fully comprehend how it came to be there, my prey is standing docile and unaware 300 meters ahead.

Within seconds I am on the ground, stretched full-length in the dirt, my mouth clamped around the jugular vein of a two-year-old doe. The spasms lessen. My muscles grow warm. My thoughts become clearer, no longer shivering and spinning with every motion.

"Better?" Alice asks, prodding my leg with one delicate leather boot.

"Mmmmnnnn," I moan, eyes drifting closed, my thirst sated. For now.

"Good. Because we have a lot of work to do. But first, you need to get cleaned up."

I see myself through her eyes. My hair is wild, caked in blood and mud, marble shards trapped between the gory strands. My clothes hang off my emaciated body, rags really, the seams and bedraggled threads soaked in blood and filth. I am a nightmare come to life.

We find a stream, and I wash away the blood, Bella's blood, and listen for the far-off beat of her heart. But all I hear is water. The song is muffled and distant, like an oboe playing a sad lament somewhere beyond a closed door.

"It's going to be okay," Alice assures me, but her mind is strangely blank. What does she not want me to see? "Let's go, Edward. We have a lot to do. Esme is waiting."

* * *

 _A/N:_

 _A lot of you commented on the A/N at the end of last chapter. Here's the background. It all started with a text exchange between me and my friend, Dawn._

 _Dawn: "He better not kill her, Maggie, dang it! LOL He needs to focus on her, not the taste of her blood!"_

 _Me: "But if he could ignore her blood, there would be no plot!"_

 _Dawn: "But he's not gonna kill her, RIGHT?! lol!"_

 _Me: "He hears her heart stop beating. Does that answer your question?"_

 _Dawn: "No! You vague woman! Lol I'm okay with him turning her, I just don't want her to end up as a meal, the end."_

 _Me: "Weeeeellll, he doesn't turn her. Sorry to disappoint."_

 _Dawn: "OMG! For real?! I'm at work but I think I'm going to cry now."_

 _And then, because I'm a horrible, horrible person, I let that feeling marinate for a while before replying. I had to reassure her for fear she would go all Misery on me. I like my ankles just the way they are, thank you very much! Okay, readers. It's finally time to say good bye to Fossilward. BTW, that was Ninkita's term, not mine. :)_

 _As you can probably tell, I was trying to earn the 'horror' label in this chapter. Thank you for all of the incredible responses to last chapter. You guys make me smile more than you know. Every time I post something here and the reviews start coming in, I realize how incredibly blessed I am to be able to share my Twilight addiction with all of you crazy people. Thank you for reading, for rec'ing, for reviewing._


	12. EPOV - At Break of Dawn

Thank you for your patience. And thank you for joining me on this journey!

* * *

EPOV Part XI

At Break of Dawn

I do not recognize anything. Landmark trees have fallen and rotted away. The landscape is broken by roads and footpaths; everywhere the evidence of human occupation. We dash across a two-lane highway, timing our movements to pass between two logging trucks as they head in opposite directions. One is loaded with fresh-cut pines, while the other trailer is empty, rattling raucously with every bump and dip in the road.

Through a space between the trees, I see the Olympic peaks rising up, cold and majestic, unchanged but for a snowpack that is slightly thicker than the year of my incarceration. I pause for a moment to absorb the view; proof that, for all the years I was cut off from the world, very little has changed.

Alice guides me on a path that leads directly toward my singer's plaintive song. Bella's song. I imagine that it is weaker, and a strange sort of desperation pushes me to run faster.

We enter a clearing, and my feet catch on hummocks of unmowed grass. Our home, the last place I remember experiencing joy and peace, hunches in the center of the clearing. Time has, in fact, changed my world much more than I thought possible. My heart breaks to see Esme's masterpiece reduced to such squalor. That thought does not last for more than a split second, for at that moment, I feel the heartbeat, the metronome of my soul, falter.

"Carlisle," I whisper, pleading for him to let me in. I sense a brief moment of recognition before his thoughts become blurred and distant once more.

"She will be okay," Alice reassures me. "Jasper got here in time."

Alice slips her hand into mine and pulls me forward. I am terrified. I feel as if I am trapped in a nightmare, with the inevitability of tragedy hanging like a noose above my head. The house is almost silent, although I sense many minds within. Rosalie, Emmett, Carlisle and Esme… and the newcomer, Jasper.

Pallets of plastic-wrapped building supplies are lined up along the north wall of the house. It would seem my family is back to stay. As my foot strikes the bottom step leading up to the porch, the front door swings open, and Rosalie and Esme step outside to greet me.

"Edward," Esme breathes, and there is no need for any other words. The relief, the anguish, the hope and the worry are written plainly on her face and in her mind.

"I am still who I was before," I reassure her, taking her smaller hands in mine. She steps into the circle of my arms, and I drink in her familiar scent. Her head fits perfectly beneath my chin, and I rock her gently in my arms. "Stop. Stop that right now," I scold her as her thoughts turn to guilt and regret for the pain and isolation I endured, for the years I lost.

"I never stopped praying for you. Not for a single second," she says, stepping back to look into my eyes. They are not the same burnished gold that they used to be. Through her vision I see vermillion swimming in the gold, so my irises appear like red amber. Her thoughts are overflowing with fervent prayers of thanksgiving.

"Thank you," I answer simply. And, as has always been the case with us, the space between our words is rich with simple love and understanding.

I look up and smile at Rosalie. She blinks, her lips turning up into a reluctant grin. She greets me with a blunt but honest observation. "You look like hell."

"You think so? Alice claims she can fix that."

"She'll try. But she can't perform miracles," Rosalie laughs, her voice as dry and ironic as I remember.

"You are wrong, Rose. She can. She does. I am standing here now, am I not?"

"Well, if you want to call that a miracle," she replies, rolling her eyes. And I know that nothing has changed between us. Not really. That makes me smile.

I see Rosalie's movement before the thought of hugging me even crosses her mind, and I glance down at Alice, recognizing the knowing smirk that never quite leaves her painted lips. I surprise us all when I tug Alice into our circle, holding tight to my mother, my sister and the stranger, the savior who, decades ago, fed my mind the only thing that could save it from madness.

 _Hope._

I am not sure how her power works, and I cannot be sure if she knows herself, but I am content to accept that it does.

One floor up and forty three feet away, Bella's heartbeat is accelerating. I am struck by conflicting waves of anticipation and dread. The song that flows between us is fainter still, although we are no longer far apart. In its place a new sound is taking hold. I know this sound well. It is pain... a hiss of air forced between clenched teeth, and a long, tortured moan. She does not scream, but her agony is like white hot steel slicing between my ribs.

She is changing. She will be like me soon. Unwittingly, I have shared my curse with an innocent soul. I did that to her. While I have hated what I am since the moment of my rebirth, I find I cannot hate her. Not any part of her. But I fear for her, for us, and for the humans that might stumble unwittingly across our paths.

"Whoa. You look like shit," Emmett appears suddenly, greeting me with his signature poor timing. He stands in the open doorway, covered in sawdust, with an electricity-powered tool in his hand.

"So I've been told," I acknowledge, letting Rosalie and Alice step aside, but keeping Esme close. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah. Hold this rail for me while I tack it into place?"

"I can do that," I say, knowing that there is little else I will be permitted to do until Carlisle and the strange newcomer allow me upstairs.

Esme directs the work as we raise tiles to replace the rotten subfloors, tear down sheetrock, run new wiring and upgrade the plumbing of the old mansion. It is surreal to see the extent of the decay. Just days before my imprisonment, I had serenaded the family with a concert on my beloved grand piano. Yet there it lies in fragments, shoveled into one corner amid the wreckage of decades past. I shake my head every few minutes to chase away the images of a time that no longer exists. The longer I work, the harder it becomes to separate the memories of these rooms from my current surroundings. The change is too great to assimilate. I feel my hands falter, and a tile slips from my grasp to shatter on the floor.

Alice appears by my side, beckoning with a sharp tilt of her head. I obediently follow her outside. I am quickly losing touch with my senses. Everything seems to melt and lose form. The conflict between what I remember and the reality which now surrounds me is staggering.

It is surreal. It is wrong. I cannot trust my eyes.

Alice draws me to the northern edge of the clearing, shaded by towering conifers. The tops tilt and shrink, sucking into themselves. My stomach heaves. I sway and close my eyes to block out the vertiginous images.

Alice takes my hands and places them on her shoulders. It is a sign of trust. Even in my weakened state, I could cause her serious harm, even kill her.

"Look at me," she commands, forcing my eyes up to meet hers. She is real. She is now. There is no conflict in my mind. She is what I see; static, unchanging... immortal.

"Watch. Listen," she instructs, and I passively agree.

Then the true sensory onslaught begins. Images and thoughts stream through my mind, years screaming past in a flood. I see generations of international wars and power struggles, played out on a giant chessboard which tilts and turns, knocking millions of bodies into the abyss like so many pawns. I watch the steady march of technological advancement as it transforms everything from industry to entertainment, and the tools Rose and Emmett wield so easily make sense to me. Satellite communication and space travel, civil rights and cultural revolutions… My mind struggles to drink it in, to digest everything she is telling me. I am reeling by the time Alice shifts her focus to more personal matters. She tells me of her past. Of her mate. Of her visions and her discovery of Carlisle's coven.

She slows down to share with me the first vision in which I appeared. Carlisle had invited the new couple into his study, where hung the family portrait I have always detested, painted in 1935 by his dear friend Carmen. Upon seeing my image on the canvas, Alice had been struck with a series of visions so powerful that she had been unable to stand or speak for hours. Those visions were the key to unlocking my prison and saving Bella's life. And my soul. For in those visions, Alice had learned the truth… that my singer was destined to be my mate, if only I could refrain from draining her.

Alice and Jasper were not bound by the treaty as Carlisle and the others were. Only they could ensure that the terms of the pact remained unbroken and avoid a devastating feud with the shapeshifting Quileute. Our pact prohibited me, or any of our coven, from taking another human life. It also contained the threat of our kind by preventing Carlisle from ever changing another vampire. Only Alice could prevent me from breaking the first. And only Jasper knew how to preserve Carlisle's integrity while saving Bella.

The family devised a plan, a long con, something that only the most patient and disciplined individual could execute. Alice visited me in the graveyard, planting images of my future mate in my mind decades before she was even born. Then, after hanging the portrait in its original place, she subtly manipulated Isabella Swan into finding and uncovering the truth.

I stand, shaking my head in wonder and disbelief. "Impossible," I breathe. How much was luck and how much fate? None of us can say.

"I know," she agrees, still shocked that the plan, decades in the making, seemed to have worked.

"How did you know I would stop? And how did Jasper change her? My venom, I had none… the change could never happen. Did he…?" I try to ask, but the thought is somehow repugnant to me. That another vampire, especially a male, could claim that bond with my beloved… I am speechless.

"He is not her sire. Nobody is. Or rather, we all are. She is your mate, first and foremost. And she is a Cullen."

Alice begins to describe the method by which Jasper and Carlisle saved Bella's life and ensured the change. At that moment, Carlisle, who had been listening as we conversed, relaxes his control, and I can see for myself.

Bella is covered from neck to knee in a blue sheet. She is strapped down to a table constructed of welded steel. At six points around her body, IV bags hang, their dark red contents draining slowly into her body. The blood is… different, somehow. It shimmers as the evening sun shines into the room.

I am not her sire. My family is. All of them. The venom-infused blood, each cell already caught in the throes of the change, is filling her body, replacing what I drained, repairing what I broke. Her heart races on, still human, but it is hardening into crystal one cell at a time. I watch through Carlisle's eyes as he assesses the wound at her throat, already sealed and healing into a thin, silver crescent.

My mark. My mate.

A low growl rumbles in my throat as the male, Jasper, comes into view. He bears the scars of a thousand battles, but his demeanor is cool and professional as he checks the volume in each bag.

"He has done this before…" I observe, and Alice nods.

"We do not speak of that. It is in the past. This will be the last and final change he supervises."

I nod my understanding, repulsed by the thin stream of images that slip past her defenses before she locks them down. The guilt I carry pales in comparison to the torment that sickens his soul.

Soon the IV bags have drained completely. I watch in fascination as Jasper withdraws the needles. The holes close in minutes, leaving smooth, milk-soft skin behind.

"I am grateful. To both of you," I say, and it is the truth.

I feel a burst of gratitude and reassurance wash over me, emotions more pure and undiluted than any natural feeling, and the battle-hardened warrior smiles.

"Yo, Ed! Grab a brush, and get back to work!" Emmett calls from the house.

With my anxiety back under control, I comply. I do not even respond to Emmett's teasing barbs. Esme's piles of supplies dwindle quickly, and the day bleeds into night and back to day again.

The marble tiles lie smooth again, polished until the moonlight glides across the surface like water. The interior smells of fresh-cut lumber and paint. The house, now wired for electricity in every room, it cheerful and charming, but I am restless, anxious to see her. I can no longer think of work. Instead I stand in silence, every sense tuned to monitoring Bella as her human life dwindles to hours…

By midnight of the second night, Bella's heartbeat is no longer recognizable as such. It is now a steady hum, an angry vibration, as valves fuse and chambers freeze into static voids filled with fluid.

She cannot have known what would happen. She will be terrified. What if she hates me for what I did to her, for making her into a monster? She was barely seventeen, just a child, really. Innocent and naive.

Just as I was.

My mother, my human mother, is nothing more than a shadow in my memory. I pray that Bella remembers me when she wakes, that I am more than a shadow. More than a half-remembered dream.

I pray that she remembers that she wanted me. Needed me. Chose me over life itself.

And I pray that she still does.

Bella no longer makes a sound. Her limbs no longer strain against her bonds. Instead, she lies rigid, caught in a rictus of pain that defies description. My feet are drawn inexorably towards her, and I climb the stairs in a trance. I watch through Carlisle's eyes as Jasper releases the straps that bind her. Alice passes me where I stand, glued to the floor outside the closed door. Her arms are wrapped around a large cloth bag, from which a swatch of dark blue fabric peeks out.

"Edward, go to your room. You're behind on your writing."

"But I-"

"Now."

Cowed, I take the stairs up to the third floor. I have avoided this space, limiting my activities to the first floor and the exterior of the house. I am afraid to revisit the past, to return to the bedroom where I spent so much time before my fall. I cannot even explain my fear, only that I wish to move forward, to look forward, and never remember that day again.

I pause with my hand on the door knob. As pointless as it is, I draw in a deep breath before opening the door and stepping through.

I do not know this room. The dimensions are the same - fourteen by twelve feet, and the windows on the south and east-facing walls look out across the starlit forest, but there is nothing of me or my past here now.

A large platform bed dominates the space, made from polished black wood and dressed in gold linens. That completes the inventory of creature comforts. If it were not for the bed, I would believe I had stepped into a forest glade. Beneath my feet, natural stone spreads, each paver outlined with silver thyme. The perimeter of the room is lined with plants. Orchids and irises nod amid beds of moss and emerald-green grasses. The walls disappear completely, painted to appear like a meadow stretching out for yards and yards in all directions. The sky is blue and nearly cloudless, although I cannot see the sun. Instead, tube-shaped lights, their tops painted to match the backdrop, shine ultraviolet light over the sprawling flora. I inhale the raw scents of dirt and grass, of growing things, of life itself. I shut the door behind me and turn slowly, taking it all in. I will never be closed in again. Never.

A rough sob escapes my lips. "Thank you," I whisper, although I think she already knows.

In the center of the bed I see a brown leather journal and a matching pen case. I open to the first page and begin from the moment that I first laid eyes on Bella, dressed as my bride. I spill out every thought, every fear, and the hope that is woven throughout it all, bleeding my emotions onto the ivory page in black ink.

The sound of Bella's failing heart carries through the walls, resonating in the very bones of the house. I am racing against that final moment, the point when her humanity will cease and she will awaken to a new world, a new dawn. I write until my ink runs dry and the last nib breaks. I reread my final sentence and realize there is nothing more to write. Not until she awakens.

The song is barely a whisper now, little more than the memory of a song, like the notes that echo through the wooden stage long after the encores have ended and the pit has emptied.

The song is no more. I ache inside, my heart wistful and lonely without it.

I am here, alone in this moment. On the horizon, the promise of a new day glows, soft as honey sweetening the eastern sky. The sound of Bella's heart has reached a fevered pitch as the final bastion of human cells strain to expand and contract against the walls of crystal that surround and imprison them. One by one they burn and transform.

My feet carry me downstairs and to her open door. I realize with a start that the house is empty. It is only me and my beloved, balanced on the razor-thin line between life and eternity.

The metal table is gone, as are all traces of medical paraphernalia. She is laid out on a narrow bed. The bedspread is white lace, the perfect backdrop for her delicate beauty. Alice has washed away all signs of dirt and blood, combed Bella's hair and dressed her in a blue gown. She wears no makeup, no jewelry, no artificial embellishments. She needs none. Her skin glows like moonlight, and I drink in her perfection.

I hesitate on the threshold, nervous and unsure. Will she want me here when she wakes?

Suddenly, she inhales sharply, back arching and fingers curling into fists. Her heart contracts with one, final desperate beat. I am struck by a wave of sound, like a hammer coming down on a gong.

Then silence.

She does not move. I step closer, my feet brushing softly over the thick carpet. I come to a stop at the foot of her bed, terrified to speak, but desperate for any sound, any motion to cut through the suspense.

She lies as still as death. Her eyes open, the irises red as rubies. Then she exhales and draws in another breath. A look of wonder brightens her features, but her mind is as silent as ever. I shift my weight, leaning one inch closer. My knee brushes against the bed spread, and she is no longer lying before me. In a flash of movement visible only to the undead, she is standing against the bedroom wall, hands pressed against rose-colored wall paper, eyes wide and mouth panting.

"Bella?" I ask, heartbroken by the terror in her eyes.

"Edward…" she breathes in recognition, and I sink to my knees in wonder.

I am almost knocked off balance when an image strikes me. It appears dim and flat, like a human thought or memory, but far more powerful. I see a painting, Carmen's family portrait, hanging in a dark and dusty room. It is not just the unexpected vision that robs me of my strength, but the thoughts, the feelings that accompany the images. My chest aches with the adoration and desire.

Dozens of other thoughts and memories flicker by, then I see the monolith, hidden beneath tree branches, sinister and cold. Suddenly I am trapped again, imprisoned as much by my guilt and self-loathing as the iron and stone. The feeling only lasts a second, because I am not inside, I am outside, looking up, completely enthralled by the song that owns my heart and infects my soul. I am desperate to be closer, to be consumed.

I squeeze my eyes shut and grip my head with both hands, fingers digging into my skull to stop the foreign invasion. "Stop… Please…" I groan helplessly. For days and days I begged to hear her thoughts, but the intensity is too much. I no longer know where I begin or where I end.

The visions do not stop, but they do change. I am no longer in the cemetery. Now I am in a small boutique. I feel fabric - silk and lace, slipping between my fingers. I am choosing white flowers and weaving them into a delicate wreath of ivy. I am staring into a mirror, seeing the woman that I love, dressed in white, nervous but determined. Words ring through my mind. _We will be one, 'til death do us part._

I am standing in a room of roses and cream, looking down at myself. My mind and heart swell with compassion and empathy, with love and desire. Two cool hands join mine, fingers slipping between my own to loosen my grip on my hair. I return to myself, although her thoughts and feelings swim around me; warm, beautiful, so lovely to behold. I am shaking, and so is she.

"Am I dreaming?" she asks in the voice from my fantasies.

"You are awake," I reply, lifting my eyes to hers.

"Edward Anthony Masen Cullen… I almost can't believe it. You are real."

"As real as you."

Her hands caress my face, feather-soft touches gliding over my eyelids, my nose, trembling as they pass over my lips. She tastes of honeysuckle and roses.

Her fingers twine into my hair once more, and I bury my face in the softness of her belly. I wrap my arms around her. My sacrificial lamb. My savior.

I am sobbing dry, wrenching gasps of relief and love. For so long… so long… I dreamed of her. Now, to touch her, to belong to her… my heart cannot contain so much joy. I feel as if it will burst into flames.

Bella sinks to her knees before me, her arms clinging to my neck and shoulders, pressing my lips to the crescent scar at her throat.

 _One day…_

 _Today…_

 _Today, I feel her touch. She whispers my name, a loving sigh against my cheek. Today I taste her on my lips. Today… she is mine._

* * *

 _Marking a story 'complete' is always a bittersweet thing. I have so enjoyed revisiting Stephenie Meyer's original characters and twisting their story to suit my purposes. Many thanks to Ninkita for her incredible Beta work. The original one-shot would never have seen the light of day without her! Thank you also to the organizers of the 2015 Red-Eyed Edward Contest. Thank you to everybody who has read, reviewed, rec'd or raved about this story. I love and appreciate every one of you!_


End file.
